That Night In December
by nothingtodo
Summary: This is something like Rilla of Ingleside, with all the WW1 and everything, except it's a different girl with a different life and different people. Anyway, it's just fiction so don't expect any specific dates or countries or whatever, because i stink at
1. The Beginning

Abigail Rogers grinned to herself as she splashed around in the salty seawater, rather obliviously sending water flying in every direction. She lifted her dress high up and spun around, dancing clumsily, with signs of toppling over every now and then. "It's a beautiful day!" she yelled to the sea, and grinned again when the waves around her replied: _Yessssss……_

It was indeed a beautiful day. The sun towered over with its usual friendly warmness, the trees swayed to the beat of the winds, touching each other's branches at times as if whispering among themselves, and the birds let out cheerful chirps from time to time. They too, seem to be exchanging gossips among each other.

Abigail would just love to know what they were talking about, and sometimes she even imagined that she did. But other times, her imagination rather failed her mercilessly, as it did on this very minute.

Never mind, thought Abigail absently. I will not let _that _spoil this rare moment. You can talk - or chirp all you want, darling birds. I'll just drink in the beauty surrounding me, trapping me inside their grasp. 

She 'drank in the beauty', looking over the harbour with eyes as wide as only Abigail's eyes can be. The sea stretched for miles and miles, disappearing behind dusky backgrounds. Abigail wondered what could be beyond the dusk. What is hidden behind the unseen side of the world? What could possibly be waiting for her there?

"Abigail Rogers, you come here at once!" screeched Mr. Rogers. Abigail dropped her skirt into the knee-deep water and gaped at her father, who stood among the tall grasses. If it wasn't for his light brown coat, Abigail wouldn't have been able to differentiate between the two.

"Father!"

"Yes, your father," Mr. Rogers said, in a tone that screamed sarcasm. "Who else would I be? Now, you come here and go home!"

Abigail walked weakly towards him, her wet skirt dragging behind her. Now, why is Father so mad? She couldn't recall doing anything wrong, except for the time when she dragged a struggling chicken all over the backyard, out of temper more than anything else because the chicken had scratched her. But that was _ages_ ago!, insisted Abigail stubbornly. And Father _couldn't_ have possibly found out! She had kept it a _sacred_ secret!

But Father didn't say anything.

And Abigail joyfully joined his steps and thanked the Lord above for sparing her, not noticing the troubled look on her father's face. It must be said that it is not expected out of Abigail to notice anything at all. She, like any other fifteen-year-olds, was naïve and almost as vain as a peacock, lost in their own bubble without a care to the outside world. 

But it must also be said that Mr. Rogers was rather thankful for this. He had just received the bad news when he was in town in the morning. It had got him into a bad mood and he knew he wouldn't be able to cope with Abigail's questions or questioning glances if she had known, for Abigail was very good at pestering people.

Instead, he would talk this over with his eldest son, Patrick. He knew he could trust Patrick to keep it a secret from Mrs. Rogers and - no, Mrs. Rogers must be told. But Abigail must not know. And Patrick was sure to be able to take care of that.

Abigail, unconscious of the plans her father had in store for her, walked the rest of the way in her quick, soundless steps. She felt her way of walking was rather stylish, though no one had ever complimented her on it. But she had caught several people admiring her when she walked, hadn't she?

Vain, care-free Abigail….

How her heart would break when she discovers that the 'admiring people' were instead, struggling to control their laughter at her frog-like walk!

Early March morning saw an emotionally ruffled girl of brownish eyes and plain dark hair storming into White Shore barn, surprising all the other girls inside with her condition: frizzled hair and burning cheeks of shame and anger. 

"Abigail," Georgia Hunberg, a girl of sixteen with patience and wisdom beyond her years, stood up. "What did you do now?" It was a rather reflex action. What else would anger poor, small Abigail if not that she were caught red-handed in another complicated scrapes of hers?

"I did not do anything!" Abigail replied hotly. How could Georgia? She had come all the way from Lunar Cottage to seek comfort, and this is the treatment that she gets? How dreadful! Inconsiderate brats, indeed! 

"Don't look so, Abigail." Wendy Trent teased mercilessly. "You look rather awful!"

"I do not dress to impress!" screeched Abigail, who couldn't turn any redder if Wendy had said she was the ugliest creature alive. "And I do not care if I look awful or whatsoever!"

"Do not yell at us, Abigail." hushed sensible Derrane Frank, barely looking up from sheets of her own drawings, which were to be sent for a competition next week. She had hoped to win, for she had worked on the drawings all winter. Surely they are good enough, aren't they? "Our hearings are in good condition."

"Well, then I'm afraid your sensitivity isn't!"

"Now, sweetie pie," Georgia smiled sympathetically. "What on earth is wrong?" She cast her smile towards Abigail, only to be replied by a cold, icy stare. "Do not call me sweetie pie, Georgia," hissed 'sweetie pie' Abigail. "I am _not_ a child anymore. And as for what on earth is wrong - _everything_! Father announced last night that I am to not walk out of Hoofburg until he says I could!"

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Abigail, is that all?" Wendy shook her head dubiously. "I thought the world had come to its end! Now, looking at me with a face like that will not solve anything, Abigail." 

"Do you not see the consequences? I can no longer take walks, no longer see sunsets, no longer read books by Windy Lake! Oh, it's all so _true_! I thought it was _all_ a bad dream when I woke up to-day, but Father reminded me at breakfast, and it _spoiled _my appetite! Oh, and do you have biscuits around here, Georgia? I'm rather hungry."

Georgia went to get cream puffs, smiling at Abigail's exaggerated story. Oh, if only Abigail would look at things calmly and not get everything to her head all at once! 

"It won't be long before he changes his mind, darling." Derrane soothed absently still pre-occupied with her drawings. "He _knows_ you cannot survive without going out with us _every _once in awhile." Derrane, like Abigail, was in favour for Italics.

"No, he _won't_." protested strong-headed Abigail. "It _was_ in his tone. He said: Abigail, from now on, you are forbidden to go a-walking around, with or without your friends. Oh, how _awful_ of Father! And even Mother and Patrick were against me! I expected Patrick to take up Father's side, of course. Patrick has _always_ hated me, but Mother! I _cannot_ believe Mother would agree with Father! Do they think I cannot look after myself? Do they think I am _still_ a two-year-old?" Abigail stopped for breath. "Oh, how I wish Father _weren't_ here to poke his nose in my business!"

"Abigail!" cried Derrane, finally pulled away from her drawings. "How could you _say_ such a thing! Apologise to God now, or you _will_ go to hell."

"I'm sorry." Abigail mumbled half-heartedly. She _really_ wished Father was afar, where he won't be able to keep an eye on her. It is the 'onest truth! Why should she be sorry when she is speaking of the truth?

"Oh, not to worry." Georgia walked in with a plateful of white cream puffs, responding to Abigail's apology. "It wasn't much of a trouble getting them. They were just in the cupboard over at the kitchen."

Wendy and Derrane giggled, much to Georgia's confusion. "Did I say something wrong? And why, Abigail! I just saw your mother walking home from the Ladies' Aids Meeting. She looks paler than usual, doesn't she?"

"Is that so?" mused Abigail, recalling how her mother looked like. "I did not notice. But, oh, _what_ should I do? How can I _survive_ being locked up at home while you all go and have fun without me?"

"We'll save some crumbs for you," Wendy said nonchalantly. "Isn't that your mother, Georgia? I suppose she is back from Ladies' Aids Meeting as well? Ah, I thought so. Why, she looks worried. Georgia, maybe you should-"

"G' morning, girls." Mrs. Hunberg greeted them stiffly.

"Morning, Mother." Georgia smiled, handing a cream puff as she studied the small, shrunken grey face of her mother's. Was there anything different with mother to-day? wondered Georgia. Why, yes! She has gone to the meeting without her scarf! It is no wonder she is grey! It must've been a cold morning over the harbour. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Hunberg." echoed the others gaily, even Abigail, who liked Mrs. Hunberg, and sometimes found herself wishing that Mrs. Hunberg was her father instead.

Mrs. Hunberg stared at Abigail in surprise, and Abigail stared back, surprised that Mrs. Hunberg was surprised. "Why, Abigail! Your mother told me you were told not to go wandering around very far!"

"White Shore is _not_ far." replied Abigail. Then she realised she had been impertinent to Mrs. Hunberg and hung her head in shame. Oh, why couldn't she keep her sharp mouth shut? "Father said that I am not to go out of Hoofburg, that is all." - Abigail sighed a thousand suppressed sighs - "He might as well say that I am not to go out till I'm _twenty_. Oh, can you _imagine_ the ultimate boredom that I will have to face, Mrs. Hunberg? I just _can't_ bear to obey Father, but yet, I must, or the devil will eat me."

"Do you still believe in those horse's shit, Abigail?" Wendy asked, smiling challengingly. "Devils do not eat people, they just manipulate them, am I right, Mrs. Hunberg?"

"Why don't you ask the minister, dear? He knows far more about 'horse's shit' than I ever will. And Abigail, darling little girl," - Abigail winced, annoyed to be called 'little girl', but she dared not open her mouth lest something impertinent comes up again - "Please do not think so of your father. He is only protecting you."

"From _what_?" There! Being impertinent again! Oh, whatever would Mrs. Hunberg think of her now?

But Abigail had nothing to worry about, that poor child, for Mrs. Hunberg wouldn't have even noticed it if Abigail had screamed at her or howled like a dog. She looked at all the young, eager, confused - yes, confused - faces of the sweet little girls, having a clear picture in her mind of what might - _could_ - be in their way in the next three months. Oh, isn't there anything she could do to protect these harmless, sensitive creatures? How things will change! How hearts would break! How tears will fall!

"You will know, my darlings. You _will _know."

How Abigail struggled to keep herself from being impertinent!

Two days passed since Mr. Rogers' news, which upset Abigail very much. The world had grown calm and dark and quiet, despite the signs of spring lurking around and despite the rage and fury Abigail still kept in her heart for her father, which had grown worse when Mr. Rogers announced that she is only allowed to go out with 'male surveillance' from that very minute. 

Male surveillance! Does Father think _she_, Abigail Rogers, were unable to take care of herself? Oh, Father spoils _everything_! _How_ will she ever survive through _such_ torture? Male surveillance indeed! Why, Abigail could _not_ think of a single boy who could take care of her _any _better!

"Oh, stop being such a pussy, Abigail," whined Wendy, whirling in front of the mirror attached to Georgia's cupboard, smiling satisfyingly at the girl she saw in there. The girls were in White Shore, about to go for a walk with 'male surveillance', which were to meet them at Windy Lake for a picnic. "It will be such fun to go there with the boys! There will be truckloads of things to do!"

"And truckloads of people to _flirt_ with," added Derrane naughtily, watching with triumph as Wendy turned boot-red. "Like _Robert Carlo_, for example."

Wendy glared furiously. She had met Robert Carlo, a young man of seventeen, at Oliver Kirk's dance last year, and had talked of nothing else. That had rather annoyed both Derrane and Abigail, for they weren't allowed to go, as they weren't fifteen then. Poor jealous little darlings, Wendy would say to herself.

"Will you hurry up, Wendy?" Abigail's face showed what the waiting meant to her. "Don't bother with putting roses in your hair now, dearest. We are going for a picnic, not for a dance party." She said it with such 'sting' that Wendy felt hurt and pinned the roses to her hair stiffly. So little Abigail doesn't like the roses? Then she shall put them on! There now! That will show Abigail that Wendy Trent could not be manipulated by anyone!

Abigail, oblivious to the wound she had caused in Wendy's sensitive heart, looked around smugly. Oh, _must_ the boys tag along? She didn't like walking with boys! They are such _bores_ that she was sure she would fall asleep as soon as she stepped out of White Shore into their company! And to make things worse, Greg Water was going to be there too!

The girls hadn't much affection for Greg West, who was fourteen, and played all the tricks and pranks existing on unsuspecting people. Why, just last Saturday he had put a rubber snake in Mr. Johnson's cart, and had given him a heart attack! They learned that Mrs. West gave Greg a good spanking, which was said to be _so_ hard that it was heard from miles away!

Whatever willhe _do _at the picnic now?

But there was really nothing to worry about, for Mrs. West _did_ give Greg a good and _hard _spanking. Greg felt he wouldn't be up to any tricks again in a hurry! Abigail kept a watchful eye on him as they arrived at Windy Lake with their picnic baskets - so watchful that Greg felt rather timid and self-conscious under her gaze.

Not until she and Derrane had settled near the water with apple pies each did she put her mind to rest, for Greg was nowhere to be seen. If that is a good or a bad sign, Abigail didn't know. But she forgot all about him as the beauty of the lake and the whirling wind wrapped her in their reverie. 

Wendy had gone straight to Robert Carlo, and they sat on a broken log with their backs to the rest. Wendy felt herself blush every time Robert Carlo laid his eyes on her, and worried about her roses. Oh, suppose it falls out? How humiliating! Suppose Robert thought it was ugly! Suppose it did not compliment her rosy cheeks, as she had thought so back in Georgia's room! This made her quite distant, and if Robert had been annoyed, he showed no signs of it.

"When I grow up, Derrane," sighed Abigail softly, as she wrapped her arms around her knees and glanced at her chum, "I am going to have my house _right_ here. At this _very_ spot we're sitting on. I shall have loads of Chinese lanterns, … white ones of course. You _know_ I hate red lanterns, Derrane. I always think that they were bleached with blood. I saw one in town ages ago, and it was bee-you-tee-ful! How it glowed in the dark! I asked Father for it, but he wouldn't let me have it because he says I will not have anywhere to put it. _I _do not see why _that_ would be much of a problem. Why, our house is packed with vases and flowers that I can see _nothing_ else, and Mother still buys more!"

"I do not understand _what_ you see in Chinese lanterns, Abigail." Derrane shook her head. "Why, I would rather have candles all around _my_ house. Just imagine the romantic atmosphere it'll produce! And Mrs. Hunberg said she saw a scented candle in town days ago, and I'm dying to have it! My birthday is coming up _very_ soon, you know…"

Abigail, not noticing the meaningful glance that Derrane paid her, frowned. "But it will be so much work to lit all the candles up and blow them off again!"

"Well, at least it is _cheaper_ than having to buy oil lamps for lanterns every week!"

"But lanterns spread _far more_ light than candles _ever _can! At least _I_ won't be the one falling over her own ankles in the dark!" 

Derrane ignored her friend's retort and gazed around with narrowed eyes. "Why Abigail! Tell me if that is really Fillan West or not! Do you see him? Georgia is with him. … Why, whatever is _wrong_ with your eyes, Abigail? How could you possibly _not_ see Georgia's orange taffeta?"

"Why, I didn't even know Georgia had an _orange_ taffeta!" asked Abigail. "Oh! I see them! My, my. It _is_ Fillan West, isn't it? Patrick used to say he was just as naughty as Greg _ever_ was. I wouldn't doubt that. I will _never_ forget the day Fillan called me 'fatty'! Would you suppose it runs in the West's family? I did not know he was around at this time."

"Neither did I," said Derrane. "I heard he will be going to college soon. No wonder Georgia is brimming with pride! Imagine walking with a future BA!"

"Why, you're walking with a future BA yourself, Derrane, and you're not 'brimming with pride', I've noticed."

"A future BA? Why Abigail! You don't mean to tell me that _you_ wish to go to college too! That is so unexpected!"

"Patrick refused to go and Father was disappointed with him," said the offended damsel in a hoarse whisper. "So I decided that _I_ will be the one to go. Oh, don't look at me so, Derrane! I'm not _that_ stupid!"

"I didn't mean it _that_ way, dearest!" wailed frantic Derrane. "But oh, whatever shall I do when you go? You will go to big cities and forget all about me, and Georgia and Wendy! Why, I simply cannot bear that to happen!" 

"Derrane," cried Abigail helplessly. She had expected Derrane to make fun of her, but this! Why, who would've thought Derrane would be so protesting? "You _know_ I will never forget you, or Georgia, or Wendy either! And we both _know_ that the time _will_ come sooner or later when we will be set apart."

Derrane searched Abigail's soul in her eyes, and knew Abigail had set her mind on it. There was no use trying to avail her now. "I know… I know, but I never expected it to be so soon! Oh, do not tell me that it will be three more years before it'll happen, Abigail! It doesn't make a difference if it were to be three or ten more years when I _know_ that you _will_ go anyhow!"

"You can come with me."

"Oh, but I don't want to! You remember the vow I made long ago, don't you, Abigail? I vowed I will never leave dear Hoofburg, no matter what. Oh, let's not talk about this anymore, shall we?" Derrane said desperately. She felt the afternoon was rather spoiled now. Abigail _might_ survive without her, but will _she_, Derrane Frank, survive? How lonesome it would be when her chum isn't around anymore! "Why, look! I think Fillan West is coming over here!"

"Is that so? But why would he?" asked Abigail with fake gaiety. She too, felt disturbed. Oh, why did she bring the subject up in the first place? "I do not think he even remembers us, with all the college glamour about him." Oh! That word again! Derrane would think she was doing it on purpose!

She glanced alarmingly at Derrane and thanked the heavens when she found Derrane too preoccupied with the prospect of Fillan West, future BA, 'coming over' to even realise what has been said. 

Fillan, having dropped Georgia over to Alexander McAlester after the enjoyable chat they had shared, walked towards the two young girls with his quick, firm steps, like an important man with a mission. Now, maybe these two girls won't ask him about college, for he had had enough curious folks dropping by and cross-examining him about it that he felt like nailing a notice on his forehead, saying: "I am _not_ going to college until my eighteenth birthday, so please keep your questions or comments to yourself, etc"! Why must people make such a _fuss_ about it? Already he had had two proposals of marriage, from Mr. Wayne and Mr. Clint. How absurd!

My, how Derrane Frank has grown! And she must be pleased to see him, judging by the look on her face. Now, isn't that Patrick Rogers' sister? What was her name again? Abigail? Yes, Abigail. And why the sour expression? 

"Hullo Miss Frank. How do you do, Miss Rogers?"

"Hullo." chirped Derrane. Ooh! Fillan West remembered her! And she had always thought he never took notice of little girls like her and Abigail!

"Very well, thank you." greeted Abigail, smiling half-heartedly, which is worse than her not smiling at all. Oh no. Likely Mr. West here will sit down and invade the conversation! Hadn't she said boys were such bores? Not only that, they are such spoilsports too!

"When did you come back from Queens?" asked Derrane. 

"About a week ago," replied Fillan, crossing his legs as he sat down. "You didn't know about my coming? That is a surprise. I'll be taking a holiday until July, and then I'll fly off." He glanced at Abigail, who had given up talking and now sat staring at her own reflection in the water. Well, well, thought Fillan haughtily. I have only been gone for four months, and already the Rogers are turning their noses upon me! "What was it that you said, Derrane? … Oh. Why, of course! I would love to spend my holiday with you lovely girls. That is," He paused teasingly. "If Miss Rogers won't mind."

Abigail felt a thrill take over her at being called 'Miss Rogers', but nevertheless the sting still found its way to her heart. Is Mr. West indicating that she, Abigail Rogers, is a _snob_? Very well! Then a snob she shall be with him! 

"I see that Miss Rogers refuses to answer me."

"Your presence or non-presence makes no difference to me."

Derrane's eyes grew wild. Has Abigail any idea to _whom_ she is speaking to? Why, Abigail could've summoned more respect, as Fillan was _ages_ older than they were! And a future BA at that too! Never had Derrane felt so mortified before. She looked at Fillan and sighed in relief at the amused expression on his face. Mercy he wasn't offended!

"I shall take that as a 'yes', Miss Rogers," replied Fillan. What spunk, laughed Fillan to himself. Surely she got it from Patrick Rogers no doubt! "Isn't Patrick going to college? I haven't seen him for a long time."

"No," Abigail replied. "He refuses to go, and Father says there's nothing to do, for Patrick has such a stubborn nature. He says he's happy at being in Hoofburg, and at being a farmer." She looked at Derrane and decided not to mention her plans of going in Patrick's place.

"I see." nodded Fillan, recalling all the adventures he and Patrick Rogers had had in their childhood. Would Patrick remember the time they found a cave and Patrick couldn't crawl in because he was too fat to fit in? "I must go and visit him."

At that moment, Greg came running madly and crashed over the picnic basket. He pulled himself up quickly and waved the newspaper in his hands. "Aye! Aye!" he cried, attracting everyone's attention, even Wendy's. "Germany has declared war upon Mother England!"

"Oh!" echoed the shocked cries. 

Fillan stood up and snatched the paper from his brother. That rather shocked Greg, for Fillan _never _snatches anything! "It's true," confirmed the shaken seventeen-year-old. "It says so here."

"That doesn't concern us, does it?" asked Abigail anxiously. But no one answered her, for they were deep in their own thoughts. The picnic was announced over, and everyone went home with a black cloud over their minds. Abigail trotted home alone by the 'forbidden shortcut', which would have filled the soul of Mr. Rogers with horror if he had known.

"Father!" cried Abigail as she ran into Lunar Cottage. "Is it or is it not true that England is on war against Germany?"

Mr. Rogers looked at her gravely, gripping his cup of tea tightly lest it falls from his shaken hands. So, Abigail has known. "I'm afraid so, little one."

"Oh, but surely England doesn't expect anything from us, does she?" said Abigail, oblivious that Father had just called her 'little one'. "Surely it has nothing to do with us, has it? Oh, I shan't sleep tonight just worrying about this."

"There is nothing to worry about," Father's tone couldn't have been anymore stiffer than it is right now. "Everything will be all right. Now go to your room. I will make sure your mother sends you your tea."

Abigail went to her room with a broken heart. Oh, she had so wanted to know everything, but Father had shooed her away! Surely he thinks her opinions aren't worthy of listening to! How small she felt!

Then she heard Patrick's voice in the kitchen, along with Father and Mother's, and curiosity over-powered her. She crept out of her room quietly and sat at the stairs. Then, she listened. 

"I met Fillan West at the bridge today," she heard Patrick say. Good heavens, she is eavesdropping! Oh, Father had said it was wrong to do so! But she wanted to know! She _must_ know! "It was splendid to be seeing him again."

"He has grown into such a good-looking man, hasn't he?" said Mother. "Why, I wouldn't have recognised him if you hadn't screamed his name so loudly, Patrick. Oh dear! How clumsy of me to spill Abigail's tea! Oh, my hands haven't stopped shaking, dearest. It seems to me it will never stop until this war is over."

"My hands aren't shaking, but my heart is." said Patrick.

"We have been alerted days ago," said Father, unfeelingly. "You should've adapted to it by now."

Oh, thought Abigail. So Father had told everyone except her. How _dare_ Father single her out! She had a right to know, hadn't she? How hurt she was! Didn't they love her _enough_ to be truthful and frank to her? Did they think she was too much of a _baby_ to know?

"They will be calling for volunteers tonight, Mother and Father. I am already eighteen, and I have decided to sign up."

Plates and cups crashed in the kitchen. Abigail almost screamed in shock, but she managed to keep composed. Patrick! Volunteering!

"Patrick, no!" she heard Mother scream. "No, no! Not you, darling!"

"Oh, hush Martha! Don't you see our boy is doing his duty? Do not look at me like that, Martha. Patrick will be all right, for _I_ will be there with him."

Mother screamed again.

Abigail stood up and ran to her bedroom, cautious to be absolutely silent. She had heard enough. Father had lied. England _did _want something from them. She wanted _their _men, to fight alongside her and protect her. And to think Father had said everything will be all right! 

How her world had turned upside down, thought Abigail bitterly. She had never been close to any of her family. Indeed, she felt it was always Father, Mother and Patrick against her. They hadn't any special affection for her, and she hadn't either. But to see them go and get themselves killed! _No_! _That_ she couldn't bear!

She buried her head into her pillow and sobbed harshly. Even when Mrs. Rogers finally came in with the tea, Abigail didn't stop. Oh! She _must_ stop, or Mother would know she had been eavesdropping! But the tears won't stop falling!

Mrs. Rogers looked at her only daughter and felt her insides crushing. Why, Abigail is crying! So she knows. She knows. Whatever should she, Martha Rogers, do? Abigail had _never_ cried in front of her before. Abigail had _never_ asked her for comfort, for advice, or guidance either. Mrs. Rogers hadn't _any_ experience!

She set the tea down grimly, and said: "Abigail, stop crying and eat your tea before it gets cold." She felt she had been sensible, but oh, if she knew how her seemingly harsh and insensitive words stabbed Abigail's heart!

Oh, doesn't Mother care for her at all? Abigail cried miserably. Won't Mother comfort her? Oh, won't she even hug her? Abigail could not think of the last time Mother had wrapped her arms around her. It had been so long ago. How she had grown apart from her mother! "Let me cry, Mother. Just let me cry!"

Mrs. Rogers, highly exasperated, went out of the room. Why must all these happen? Why, her beloved husband and son were going to war, and her only daughter might as well have been a stranger! How Abigail has grown up to be so different! Why, Mrs. Rogers felt she knew _nothing_ about her daughter!

Abigail sobbed harder. Oh, she was facing such a trauma and Mother had just walked out like that! She knew Father and Mother weren't affectionate people, but considering the circumstances, couldn't Mother have at least said something nice? 'Stop crying and eat your tea before it gets cold' indeed! 

There weren't any solemner girls in Hoofburg than Abigail, Derrane, Wendy and Georgia. How today had stolen yesterday's laughter! How yesterday was bright and cheery! How today seemed so dark and lonely! 

Mr. Rogers and Patrick Rogers had signed up a few nights ago, much to Mrs. Rogers' grief. Mr. Frank had signed up as well, and Derrane couldn't have been more bitter. She loved her father dearly. Oh, _must_ he go? Mr. Trent wasn't fit, and Wendy was grateful to the Mighty Power. She prayed that her father would go on being unfit, much to the horror of the other girls. Mrs. Trent had died when Wendy was young, and she certainly couldn't afford to lose her father now. Mr. Hunberg was going too, despite his age. How glad Georgia was that James, the baby of the family, wasn't old enough to do so. She had stayed up all night wishing that James will _never_ grow old enough to be pulled into the army. How sad Mother's eyes had been when Father announced his going! Georgia had always thought her mother the bravest of all mothers, but oh, hadn't she caught Mother crying this very morning? Poor Mother. If only she, Georgia, was a boy and eighteen! Surely she could've gone in Father's place, couldn't she?

It broke Mrs. Hunberg's heart to see the girls without their laughter, their smiles and their cheerfulness. This is all so sudden to them. How the golden days of the happy yesteryears had disappeared! How many more fragile heart will break, wondered Mrs. Hunberg sadly. How much more hurt will the war cause to the incurable wounds in their hearts?

One fine April evening, Abigail found Patrick waiting for her at the doorsteps. 

"Why, hullo Patrick."

"Hullo dear Abigail." Oh! Patrick had called her 'dear Abigail'! What on earth has come over him? He had never called her dear _anything_ before! She had _always_ hated Patrick because he called her 'hippopotamus', and Patrick had _always_ ignored her. "What would a walk to Windy Lake seem to you?" Now he's asking her to go for a walk! Dear brother Patrick! Why hadn't he treated her like this years ago, when she had needed affection the most? Why now, when things are going kaput? 

"It would be lovely, Patrick."

They went, walking in total silence, both awkward and unknowing of what to say. Spring had finally arrived, apparently at the wrong time. Abigail's heart ached whenever she looked at the beauty around her. Oh, why must the world seem so beautiful when horrible things are happening on it? She was sure she wouldn't have minded it that much if it were winter, because winters are depressing and it would be just the right season for wars.

They settled themselves on the log which Wendy and Robert had previously sat on. The air was warm, and the lake was shimmering with glory, like diamonds floating on its surface. And for a few moments, Abigail actually felt happy. She glanced at Patrick, about to say something of the fine weather but stopped at the stony gaze he held on her. "Patrick?"

"Do you know I will be going to-morrow?"

Does she _know_?! How could she _not_ know? It pursued and _haunted_ her day and night! Patrick, seeing the disgruntled look on his 'little' sister's face, smiled bitterly. "Do not you grieve over it, Abigail. You know Father and I are doing the right thing."

"I know," cried Abigail passionately. "But why must _you_ do it? There are so many other boys in the world, Patrick. Why must _you _go?" 

"Why, you mean to say that _you_, who hated me so, want _me_ to stay?"

"I am _serious_, Patrick. You may _not_ be the best brother in the world, but that does _not_ mean I want you to go give your life over to the Germans!" said Abigail hotly. Oh, so Patrick thinks this is funny? 

"I do not mean it that way," argued Patrick. "Do you want me to stay here in Hoofburg and be a coward? Abigail, innocent people are _dying_ out there. People! Sweet little girls like you. What would _you_ feel if you were one of them, and one lad in Hoofburg had refused to help just because he was too much of a coward to go?"

"I do not care. _They_ are not the ones sacrificing their beloved!"

"Yes, but _they _are the ones watching their beloved get shot down."

Abigail bit her lower lip in frustration. "Do not argue with me, Patrick!" she cried helplessly. "Let me believe what I want to believe! Do not suffocate me with facts!" Hot strung tears rolled down her cheeks. No! She mustn't cry in front of Patrick! Why, what would Patrick think of his 'hippopotamus' sister crying in front of him?

Patrick looked down at his muddy boots. He hadn't any notion to make Abigail cry, for he has done that so many times before with his pranks and tricks, but Abigail mustn't go on believing her childish perspective, through which she sees life as a candy factory, where everything is sweet and wonderful. She must face the hard truths of life. She _must_! "Come into my arms, Abigail."

Abigail accepted Patrick's first offer of affection eagerly. She felt Patrick squeeze her with a brotherly comrade and shivered at the delight of hugging which she had lost long ago. "The world is harsh on you, Abigail." murmured Patrick softly. "It shouldn't, but it is. And it will be harsher in the coming years. Don't you think it is time we prepare ourselves for it? … There is no use in shaking your head like that, dear sister, when you know deep in your heart that it is true. Well, I shall go to-morrow. I have asked Fillan West to look after you, and you need not worry about Father. _I _will take care of him, even though he keeps insisting it the other way round!"

"Aren't you scared, Patrick?" asked Abigail quietly, looking up with sad, small dark eyes. 

"I am, Abigail. But that is nothing compared to the fear of people who are being attacked upon. Yes, I will be risking my life, but it will be worth it. It will be worth every drop of my blood that falls to the ground." Patrick paused and looked at Abigail. "You look so different with your sad eyes, Abigail, which used to shine so brightly, and your tense lips, which used to unleash such laughter."

"I don't think I am able to laugh again, Patrick."

"Don't say such things, Abigail. You do not know how much the world needs your laughter. How horrible the world would be if no single laughter ever escaped a person's lips! The war will come to an end, dearest, and it won't be long till then."

"True, but oh, all the horrible things that would happen _in _the meantime! I do not care what you say, Patrick, I still think it is heartless of Father and you to be leaving Mother and I!"

"It might have been worse, Abigail," said Patrick solemnly, like a minister reading his sermons. "_You_ might have to push me to go."

Push Patrick to go fight the Germans! Why, Abigail couldn't imagine herself doing such a thing! But yet, she understood the message. Oh, Patrick! _Dear_ brave Patrick! How the world craves for people like him!

"You make me _so_ proud, Patrick."

"I know, _hippopotamus_. I know."

They were all at the train station. The Hunburgs, the Trents, the Franks, and the Rogers. Several other families were around with one and more young men in khaki's, some who stood stonily, staring at the empty railway and some who struggled to look brave, and yet had bitter tears rolling down their cheeks. Oh, how Abigail understood their feelings! How she wished she could join the club and wail like a baby! But she _couldn't_! She had made a vow, along with the other girls, that they would _not_ - no matter _what_ happens - let a droplet of water drop from their eyes for the world to see. No. They will be brave, and strong, and cheerful. They will _not_ let their fathers and brothers think they were leaving such a sad and hopeless family behind. 

They waited for the train anxiously, wishing at the same time that it wouldn't come. The atmosphere was bleak, and no laughter was ever heard. Even Patrick, who had preached about laughter to Abigail the previous day, found his attempted laughs rather _flat_ and emotion-less. 

There! The train is choo-chooing it's way here!

Abigail stood frozen as everything around here buzzed. Mrs. Hunberg stared at her husband with wistful eyes, and it was clear that Mr. Hunberg was just as heartbroken to leave his wife. Mr. Trent talked to Mr. Frank. Derrane was holding on to her father's hand as if her life depended on it, to which Derrane felt it did! Wendy and Georgia stood together, amidst the crowd and talked in hushed whispers and choked voices. Mrs. Rogers was hugging Mr. Rogers, and Abigail felt rather puzzled at the embarrassed look on his face. Mr. Frank didn't look so when Mrs. Frank kissed him, so why should Father? 

"Aren't you going to say goodbye to me, Hippopotamus?"

Abigail turned around and smiled bitter-sweetly. She didn't know whether she should slap Patrick or kiss him. How on earth could he take everything so lightly? And it is _he_ who is going! "Why?" she replied nonchalantly, fearing her shaky voice would reveal her. "I will be seeing you again, won't I?"

Patrick stared at her silently. Then he nodded. "Why, yes - of course." He smiled the loving smile shared among all the brothers in the world and bent his head as Abigail stood on her toes to give him a kiss. This was the first time Abigail had ever kissed him - and it could be the last.

The train gave it's final warning, and a grumpy fat man yelled: "All aboard!". Abigail glared at him, and found satisfaction in it although he hadn't seen it. Mr. Rogers and Patrick jumped aboard, and waved wildly as the train moved away. Abigail smiled as if she had never smiled before, and looked at her father and brother with all the love of daughters and sisters of the yesteryears and the future. 

But as the train rounded the curve, her smile vanished. 

"Goodbye, Patrick."


	2. Days....

Three weeks had passed since half the men of Hoofburg had left on the fateful train that would take them to their destiny. No farmers could be seen ploughing the field or planting new seeds for Mother Spring to breed. No boys herding cows out of and into barns. And certainly no brothers calling their sisters names, thought Abigail bitterly.

Indeed, Hoofburg seemed empty, but Abigail was sure no other place was as empty as her heart was. Patrick was gone, and she felt his absence more than she had thought she would. And Father! She had wished for her father to be far away from her, and now she must pay the price. 

Mrs. Rogers had lain sick for weeks out of depression, much to the horror of Abigail. Father and Patrick were gone, surely Mother _wouldn't_ go to, would she? She lay awake worrying about it in the calm, serene nights, where her frantic heart and her juggled thoughts seemed so absurd, so out of place. She would do anything to have a moment to herself and cry. But she can't! Mother could be listening, watching…. No, she _must_ be brave. For heaven's sake! Young girls like her were trembling in fear there in France, and she, who was safe and sound in Hoofburg, were crying of nothing! _What _would Patrick say if he knew?

Mrs. Rogers did go back to splendid health in the second week, but still the emptiness in Abigail's heart remained .The other girls rarely visited her, and it was rather a relief to Abigail, for she had found herself dreading it. The other girls weren't the same girls she had used to laugh and sing along with. They were different. _She_ was different. The war had changed them all.

Occasionally, Fillan West filled the emptiness. He had promised Patrick Rogers he would look after Abigail, and he would see to keeping that promise as he waited anxiously for his eighteenth birthday. Should he swear to the officer that he was eighteen, even though he is not? Peter Matthews did, and the officer believed him.

No, he couldn't. Abigail Rogers was in a depth of depression. She would never admit it, and even if Fillan had suggested it, she would insist it wasn't true till the end of her life, but he _knew _she needed him. And Fillan liked being needed.

"Whatever happened to your thumb?" he asked one day.

"This?" Abigail raised her bandaged thumb. "Oh, Georgia was trying to teach me how to sew and I couldn't stop pricking myself, _naturally_. Why, don't look at my thumb like that, Fillan! It has a few holes on it, but it's not _that_ bad!"

"And I suppose this-" Fillan said, lifting up a corsage, knitted in such a way that would mortify Georgia and send her screaming all over Hoofburg, "-is your masterpiece?"

Abigail snorted as haughtily as her ego would allow. If the war had changed anything about Fillan, it _sure_ wasn't his sarcasm! But yet, Abigail found herself happy about it, for Fillan's sarcasm paired up with her sharp tongue could make such an argument that would take Abigail's mind off the war, off Patrick and off Father. "Well, laugh all you want, Fillan West. Someday you might just find me a _famous_ tailor."

But she saw no hope in being a 'famous tailor' in the next few lessons. Even Georgia had cried out in despair that she, Abigail Rogers, was utterly hopeless! Ashamed and hurt that Georgia had said so about her, Abigail had taken herself to sewing her heart out alone in her room, only managing to poke more holes in her thumb, much to the disgust of Mrs. Rogers. "Abigail!" she had screamed to her daughter. "If this goes on, your thumb will disappear entirely!"

This - plus more taunts from heartless Fillan - crushed Abigail's hope and burned it to ashes. She wrote Mrs. Rogers and Fillan's name on an old piece of paper and poked them furiously with her needle. Nothing could have been any more foolish, but nothing could have been any more satisfying either!

Then, on one fateful Sunday, the news came: THOUSANDS OF SOLDIERS - GASSED TO DEATH. The church was almost empty, as the people of Hoofburg had fallen sick with worry. Abigail had rushed to Windy Lake and had 'wailed like a baby'. Derrane found her there and both of them cried, holding each other with shaken arms and shaken hearts. Had Mr. Frank, Mr. Rogers and Patrick been gassed to _death_? Oh, how they would've suffered in those last moments in their lives! Why, Abigail and Derrane _couldn't_ bear to think of it!

They lost their appetite for weeks till Abigail had lost so much weight that Patrick couldn't possibly nickname her 'Hippopotamus' anymore! Days were dull, and nights were unendurable. Abigail hadn't an idea how she survived, but she was glad she did for at the following Sunday, Patrick's letter arrived. He was unharmed, and the others were safe. The enemy had gassed another camp of soldiers over the northern side. The war looks as if it would last longer than expected, and he was afraid that Abigail and Mother must wait a while longer.

Abigail had been so happy that she had spent the night smiling away at the stars. The other girls had disappeared into their own bubbles. The stars were her friends now. How they shone and twinkled brightly against the black atmosphere! And how they will go on shining and twinkling regardless if the atmosphere gets brighter or blacker! 

Yes, she shall wait a while longer.

"And in the meantime," said Abigail to herself gaily, with a slight chuckle. "I shall learn how to cook!"

Having had a bad experience with tutors, Abigail decided to learn how to cook by herself, and she did - much to the amusement of Mrs. Rogers. Now, aromas of burned cakes and pies and porridges were considered 'normal' in Lunar Cottage. Fillan West was Abigail's usual victim, and although he had never tasted anything so bad before, he decided that he would support Abigail this time, regardless if he dies of a badly diseased stomach or whatsoever.

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing, Abigail?" Fillan had started to call Abigail by her first name, and somehow Abigail liked it better than 'Miss Rogers'. 'Miss Rogers' sounded so … _formal_, and Abigail _hated _feeling as if she was still a stranger to Fillan. 

"Sure I'm sure!" Abigail said hotly. "It says so in the recipe, didn't it?" 

"Yes, and the recipe also said it should have turned into a rosy brown, not… not _that_!" Fillan pointed to the sluggish green liquid in the boiling pot, and Abigail looked at it with secret disgust, but still kept a straight face for the sake of her pride. She scooped a spoonful of it and shoved it to Fillan. "Try it."

Fillan's face turned almost as green. "Why Abigail! I would _die_ for you without thinking twice, but _this_ is unacceptable!"

"Are you indicating that my cooking is worse than death?"

"Why I- I didn't … well… _yes_."

The look on Abigail's face broke Fillan's heart, _and_ his conscience. Had he offended the young damsel? "Something must have gone wrong, Abigail. You can try again and I promise with all my heart that I _will_ eat it if it turns out slightly less greener."

"I _don't_ feel like 'trying again'." muttered defeated Abigail. She was 'hopeless' in sewing, and Fillan had practically said he would rather die than eat her cooking … wasn't she good in _anything_?

"Abigail!" Greg West hopped into the room through the backdoor with his bright smile, which reminded Fillan of his own. "I met your mother in the post office and she said to give you this letter," he shoved one delicate envelope forward. "She also said she won't be home till late 'cause there was a long line in McAlister's shop. She said news were bound to be broadcasted to-night, and she could not afford to miss it."

Abigail nodded at his every word. Mother had stopped buying newspapers ever since the day it told of the soldiers being gassed to death, which had almost killed her with worry, and had turned out incorrect after all. She had stomped her feet and yelled at poor amused Abigail: "Darned newspapers! They cannot be trusted!" and had after that, scolded herself for swearing in front of her daughter. Now she often went to McAlister's shop, for that was the only place in Hoofburg with a radio, where she had to fight the long lines of other 'busybodies', resulting in her delay of getting back, where Abigail lay in fear at the prospect of being home alone, and where Fillan paced back and forth in his room, worried. He dared not go to Lunar Cottage, for he had been there so often now that the Hoofburg's people were starting to be suspicious. 

"Now, do you suppose it is a love letter?" teased Fillan, eyeing the fine decorations on the envelope with eyes of 'an angel's', as Georgia had put it. Abigail had argued that an angel's eyes could _not_ possibly be green. "Well, nobody had said it wasn't green!" Georgia had snorted. 

Abigail, too excited at the prospect of receiving a letter - her _first _letter, ignored Fillan's taunt. Why, the letter was for her! Not for Mother, but her! Whoever could have sent it?

'Dear Abigail Rogers,' read the letter, 'I will be coming over to Hoofburg soon, and I shall drop by Lunar Cottage. Signed, Oliver Kirk.'

"_Oliver Kirk_!" Abigail screeched, looking at the name again lest her eyes fooled her. Greg looked at his brother with curious eyes. Fillan smiled in reply and shook his head. 

"Who's Oliver Kirk?" Greg asked finally, finding both Abigail and Fillan 'impossible' to understand. To his utter surprise, Abigail clasped her hands around his and smiled at him and said: "Ooh! Why, I could just _kiss _you, Greg West, for bringing me this good news!" and then started dancing around the kitchen like one imagining herself flying in the air. Greg told Jonathan Waters several days later that 'Abigail Rogers' senses has dropped to the end of her toes' and had Jonathan 'noticed that she is blossoming into such a pretty damsel?'

Before Abigail's pride has its chance to balloon up, it must be stated here that Abigail Rogers isn't any prettier than the rest of the girls are. But, like everybody else, she too, held her own uniqueness in a way that attracts the hearts and souls of people who had had the chance to get to know her. And perhaps, Greg West has found himself listed among the others.

"Oliver Kirk is coming to visit me!" gasped Abigail as she gaily took hold of the pot and spilled the entire green liquid out of the window. Fillan felt sorry for anything alive that had been underneath the window at that very moment. "I feel as if I've just been lifted to the seventh heaven!"

"It's only Oliver Kirk, Abigail," said Fillan cruelly. "Why, one would think it was the president coming over looking at how you screamed!"

"Only Oliver Kirk!" Abigail looked crossly at Fillan. "Oh, I should have known you are more stupid than I gave you credit for, despite you being one of Queen's best student and a future BA!" Fillan's eyes widened, and Greg giggled in delight. There! His so-called perfect big brother being thrashed by Abigail, of all people! "Why, Oliver Kirk is the one of the prettiest girls in Hoofburg! And her wealth would put the kings of previous centuries to shame!"

"Is _that_ why you like her?" Fillan asked. "Because she's pretty and rich?"

"That is _not_ the point," Abigail replied, washing the pot furiously. "We-"

"-Then _what_ is the point?"

"I was about to tell before you rudely inter-"

"-I don't interrupt people."

"You just di-" 

"-Fine. So what is the point?"

"The point is, Oliver Kirk is coming over to see _me_!" Abigail tensed hands relaxed and she began to rinse the pot properly. "Do you know how many girls would _die _just to stand next to Oliver?"

"Didn't she exclude you and Derrane from her party last year?" Greg pointed out.

"She did," Abigail grimaced at the humiliating memory. "But that was only because we weren't fully fifteen yet. I cannot blame her."

At that moment, Mrs. Rogers returned with a grim face. The boys excused themselves, only to be replied by an icy glare and a curt goodbye. Abigail, Fillan and Greg had been used to the reception, for it often occurs, especially when Mrs. Rogers is back from McAlister's shop, but somehow it still stung their sensitive, little hearts, and bothered them for days.

"You want to know what you could do to make sure Oliver Kirk leaves Lunar Cottage very much impressed?" Fillan whispered to Abigail as she walked them to the door. 

"Yes!" Abigail said excitedly, her eyes brimming with anticipation.

"Don't cook."

The next few days saw an excited Abigail rushing from all corners of Lunar Cottage to get it into 'tip-top' shape. She had told her mother, and Mrs. Rogers had said: "So? Why are you telling me this?" that cut Abigail right through her heart. She should've known Mother wouldn't care, wouldn't join her in her happiness. Mother _never_ joined her in _anything_.

Nevertheless, preparations were made, floors scrubbed, windows cleaned, cluttered mess cleared and so on. Abigail never felt so tired before, but still the excitement thumped on and she went to bed with a happy mind. Tomorrow is 'The Day'! She hoped everything will be fine. But suppose morning refuses to come? Suppose she spilled tea all over Oliver's expensive dress? Suppose -

Rubbish! Abigail said to herself as she walked to her window and looked at her friends up in the sky above. The stars are shining even brighter tonight. Surely that is a good sign, isn't it? 

Her wild eyes travelled the dark space. Why, look! There are two stars up north, separated from the rest! Don't they seem bigger than the others? These stars must be heaven-sent, and she, Abigail Rogers, had been lucky enough to spot it.

"I shall name them after the two important men in my life," whispered Abigail to herself rather unconsciously. "Father and Patrick, wherever you are, may the Mighty Power protect you, and may the stars guide you."

Despite Abigail's fear, morning _did _arrive, and the dark, calm hours of night retreated. She immediately set to work, and when she was confident that Oliver Kirk couldn't possibly find anything wrong, she put on her gingham dress and although it looked shabby, she decided to be satisfied with it. Other girls whose country had been under attack probably hadn't a piece of cloth at all, so why should she complain? Don't worry girls, she said quietly. My father and brother will save you. You _will _be saved.

There was a knock on the door, and Abigail tripped over a stool as she rushed around madly. She dropped with a sound that would have woken up the dead and wondered in horror if Oliver had heard the noise. Why, Oliver _must've_ heard! She might even be laughing out there at this very minute! 

She opened the door sheepishly, and there stood Oliver Kirk, elegant as ever in her green dress with lovely laces on her sleeves. "Welcome to Lunar Cottage, Oliver," said Abigail courteously, shaking with excitement. "I can assure you that you will enjoy your visit her."

"Yes," Oliver nodded as she stepped in gracefully. Abigail watched in envy and wished she could walk as airily as Oliver does, and hold her chin up like she does, and sit down as primly as she does and-

"Where is your mother, Abigail?" Oliver asked, tossing her sixteen-year-old head with an air of a queen. 

"She is in town, at McAlister's shop, most probably. Have some tea, Oliver."

"Why, thank you. My, my, you have grown rather thin, Abigail dear. Must have been the pressures of your father and brother going. Lunar Cottage seems rather quiet without them, don't you think?"

"Yes." Abigail replied, sitting down across.

"I had thought so." Oliver nodded, reaching out for a piece of blueberry pie which Abigail had asked Georgia to make. "Now, dear Abigail, I would like to tell you my true reason for coming."

"Yes?"

"You see, I have been having some money problems lately-"

"But Oliver, how could _you_ have money problems? You are one of the _wealthiest _girls in Hoofburg!" Abigail then realised she had rudely interrupted and profusely apologised when Oliver suddenly burst into tears. "Oliver!" cried Abigail in shock and panic. "I hadn't mean to interrupt you like that! Please do not cry!"

"I am not crying because of that, you pooch!" said Oliver, snorting and sobbing ridiculously. "Oh! All of you think I am wealthy, but I'm _not_! Father and Mother are, but I'm not! Why, Father and Mother _doesn't_ even care about me."

Abigail thought of her mother, and looked at Oliver sympathetically. "I know how that feels, Oliver. Please don't cry now."

"Oh! Let me cry! I _want_ to cry! " wailed Oliver in a way that would've have sent sixteen-year-old girls to shame. "You would _not_ believe what Father said when I asked him for a _mite _of his money, Abigail! Why, you ask? I had only wanted to go to town, Abigail, and how he _scolded _me! He said I _always _waste his money! I never do so! Why, I _always _buy my own clothes with my own money, and I _always_ pay for my school fees."

Abigail gasped. Oliver Kirk buys her own clothes with her own money and pays for her own school fees? How horrible! Abigail was thankful that Mrs. Rogers wasn't as bad. "That is dreadful! Why don't you ask your Mother for a few pennies, Oliver?"

"Do you think I have not tried? I asked _ages_ ago, and she spanked me, Abigail! Yes, _spanked_ me! I have such a horrible life, Abigail. I feel I want to die!"

Abigail's eyes grew as wide as it can possibly grow. She looked at Oliver who cried even harder, and felt guilty. She had _always _thought Oliver was happy. Why, Oliver always _looked_ happy! But Abigail didn't know Oliver very well, and it wasn't impossible that what she had said was true. Abigail had always read in books that wealthy people were nothing more than selfish, self-centred devils. "Is there any way that I can help you, Oliver?"

Oliver looked at her with pleading eyes. "Why, yes. Have you any money that I could possibly borrow?"

Abigail winced quietly. She _did_ have money - a few pennies and dollars right under her pillow. But she had wanted to use the money to buy ink so she could write letters to Patrick! She couldn't possibly - but Oliver needed it badly - but what about Patrick? - Abigail was sure Patrick was waiting anxiously for her letter - but Oliver! - poor helpless Oliver! "Indeed, I do. You can have them, Oliver."

"Thank you, Abigail. You don't know how much you have done for me."

Abigail stared at the empty air with face that would have made a thousand hearts break. Her eyes filled with an eerie being of emptiness and her lips quivered unstoppably. 

Oliver Kirk has disappeared!

Just hours ago Mr. Kirk and Mrs. Kirk had banged on Lunar Cottage and demanded to see Abigail. Oliver Kirk has run away from home with Lucas Berg, who was very well known for his wrong doings in the community, and Mr. Kirk had found out that it was Abigail Rogers who had supported Oliver with the money.

Abigail had explained vainly, and she would never forget the look Mrs. Kirk had given here for as long she still breathes. A rescue team had rushed off to town, and Mrs. Rogers had woken up and had given Abigail a scolding she would long remember. Abigail now lay in her room, looking out at the silent night like one possessed. 

So Oliver Kirk had lied to her. She had used her. All along Abigail had believed her story. All along she had felt sorry for 'poor Oliver'. And all along, she thought she had done the right thing by giving Oliver her 'ink money'. 

How could she have been so _foolish_? She had heard that Lucas Berg had been courting Oliver, and that both Mr. Kirk and Mrs. Kirk hadn't approved of him. Why hadn't she put two and two together? _Why_ hadn't she dug further instead of just letting herself be fooled away like that?

Fillan walked into the room and turned blue at the sight of her. He had early suspected that Oliver wanted something from Abigail. Oliver Kirk does not go around visiting girls whom she wouldn't give a horse's hoof at. But Abigail had been _so_ excited. She had been so happy about it... "Abigail," he said softly, still standing at the side, staring like one staring at a wounded angel. "Oliver Kirk is safe. We have found her."

Abigail stared ahead stonily. So, Oliver Kirk is alright. Very well.

Fillan fidgeted uncomfortably at the eerie silence. "Oliver will explain to Mr. Kirk and Mrs. Kirk. You can expect them to come apologising in the next few days, Abigail." An even scarier silence wavered around them. Fillan wondered anxiously if Abigail was even alive. "Abigail? …. Please say something, Abigail. You're killing me with your silence."

"Even the most apologetic apologies wouldn't cure what has been said and done," Abigail said quietly. Fillan, too relieved to notice the bitterness in her tone, sat down beside her, wanting to do something, and yet not quite knowing what to do.

Abigail, whose tears had refused to show itself earlier, now flowed freely down the cheeks that burned with shame and anger. Her soul had returned to her, and she will cry for as long as her heart desired. 

Fillan felt himself ease. "Listen," he whispered with a drop of mischief in his tone. "I have a surprise for you. Got it when were in town tracking you-know-who up-" he pulled out a bottle full of liquid and presented it proudly, "- and I hope you like it."

Despite her tears and shame and anger, Abigail managed to cry out: "Ink!" with such happiness that one would think she had never seen a bottle of ink before. "Fillan! Why, I can write to Patrick now!" Then she burst to tears again, clasped her hands over Fillan's and buried her face in his lap and whispered with all the happiness that is left in her: "_What_ will I ever do without you, Fillan?"

Fillan smiled. Ah! So Abigail Rogers has finally admitted that she needed him! But the pleasure of hearing it did not quite match the pleasure he had felt as he looked into the eyes of the young maiden and wondered that maybe - just maybe, he cared more for Abigail Rogers than he was supposed to.


	3. Letters and Laughters

'Dear Patrick,' wrote Abigail on one fine evening. 'Mr. and Mrs. Kirk _did _come by and apologise, as Fillan had predicted. They didn't seem too pleased to be apologising to a _lowly _fifteen-year-old like me, but they did it _sincerely_, and I forgave them - I _had_ to. It _wouldn't _do to hold grudges against the Kirks. But no matter _how _many times they apologise, Patrick, I will never _ever_ forget the murderous look Mrs. Kirk had given me on that horrible night. I fear it would haunt me for the rest of my life.'

'I saw Oliver a few days ago. She didn't look at me once, but I _knew_ she was aware of my presence, because her cheeks turned unusually red. She hadn't apologised, and even if she had, I doubt I would forgive her. Somehow, Mr and Mrs. Kirk had decided not to bother to clear the gossips up, and I find my name brought up a lot among the folks of Hoofburg. The villagers still think that I am the one to blame, and I am sick of explaining myself innocent. They never listen to me, nevertheless, and I just don't care anymore.'

'However, Fillan gets fairly furious whenever someone talks about me around him. He defends me, just like you would have if you were here (you _would_ defend me, wouldn't you, Patrick?), and it helps, for people _do_ listen to him, because he's 'the future BA boy'. Honestly, I don't see why the fact that he is going to college changes _anything_! I, for one, will _always _see him as the _stupid_ boy who once called me 'fatty'.'

'He doesn't call me names now.'

'And I hope you won't too when you come back!'

'The other girls are fine, though I haven't seen them for a long time. Georgia told me she has been having a hard time with James. That little boy has started sleepwalking, and goodness knows _where_ he'll end up if nobody caught him on time! Wendy is full of sorrow because Robert Carlo's eighteenth birthday is coming up, and she is afraid he would consider joining the army.'

'I don't think he would. He's a _coward_. Wendy gets mad whenever I say that, so I'll say it to _you_ instead. Still, I am confused. Wendy doesn't want Robert to go, and yet she hates it when people say he is too much of a coward to go. Does she, or does she not want him to go?'

'I tried preaching to her about war and young girls dying across the land like you did to me the day before you went, but I don't think Wendy understood a word I said. Perhaps I had babbled like Mother does whenever she gets mad and doesn't know what to say but says something anyway. Or perhaps Wendy was too wrapped up with her Robert to care about what _I _have to say.'

'The other day, Fillan wanted to show me a 'treasure' he had found deep in the woods at the end of the shore, and we met Mrs. Clint. I knew that Mr. and Mrs. Clint had wanted to marry their daughter Dorothy off to Fillan, and I thought what fun it would be if Mrs. Clint were to chat Fillan up. Well, mercy, she _did_!'

'Mrs. Clint took no notice of me, apparently. I don't know whether it was because of all the things that she has heard of me, or if she was too wrapped up with Fillan that she hadn't even noticed me. But nevertheless, I enjoyed the conversation. Mrs. Clint managed to mention Dorothy a _dozen_ times every time she opens her mouth, and you should have _seen_ Fillan's face! I will never know if he was embarrassed or annoyed!'

'I teased him about Dorothy, Dorothy and more Dorothy, and he was _furious_!'

'He said he was too _young_ to be thinking of such things, but I don't believe him. Fillan is almost eighteen. Patricia Harris has married David Young, and she's only sixteen! Now… when will _you_ marry, Patrick? Do you want me to watch the girls in Hoofburg for you? So I can tell you which is the best when you come back?'

'If your answer is yes, I'll ask Derrane to help me and we'll choose some nice girls for you.'

'If your answer is no, I'll ask Derrane to help me and we'll choose some nice girls for you anyway.'

'We finally got to the so said treasure - and could you guess what it is? It was a deserted tower! It looks old, and neither I or Fillan knew who built it, but we were glad whoever it was _did _build it, because I think it's such a _darling_ little thing, despite it's alarming condition! There were small plants all over the walls, and Fillan said white flowers bloom out of them every summer - _whole _bunches of them - and the tower would look as if it is covered with a white _carpet_!'

'We have vowed to come back there in the summer, which is only a month away, and _you_ can come along, if you're back by then.'

'You _will_ be back by then, won't you?'

'How much longer will the war lasts, Patrick? I _am_ waiting. I am waiting as patiently as my nature would allow me. But for _how_ much longer? Won't it end, Patrick? Because it doesn't look promising. John Mason just signed up, and Mrs. Mason is lying ill in grief. I feel sorry for her, for John is the only child. How many more of our boys must go, Patrick? I have no special affection for them, but to see them go _is_ a hard thing.'

'Well, good luck, and tell Father I love him and that I am thinking of him _all the time_, even if he refuses to believe it. Mother is healthy and fine. She thinks of the two of you all the time too, because she _always _yells out your names when she drops something (and trust me, Mother drops a _lot_ of things nowadays). (But that is good, isn't it? Then she will say your names more often and remember you more often too!)'

'Yours, Abigail.'

*

Abigail stared at the stars with the same lonely and stony gaze she had acquired for some time. Bitter tears dropped every now and then. These were leftovers. She had finished crying ages ago. 

"What is this?" Mother had said when Abigail handed her a nicely wrapped box early that morning.

Abigail, who had expected a more courteous reaction, stared at her mother like she had never seen her before. "Why, Mother! Have you forgotten? Today is your birthday! And this is your birthday present."

Mother had snorted and pushed the box away ungratefully. "Why, I thought you had more sense than to waste money over a thing as silly as birthday gifts! I do not want birthday gifts. I only want your father and brother back. Now, don't look at me with that face, Abigail Rogers! Take this back and go to your room."

How Abigail struggled to keep her hot tears at bay! She had been crying for hours now, and yet the humiliation and sting kept hurting. The box was still downstairs. Abigail had not 'taken it back' as her mother had told her, and she had no notion of 'taking it back' either. Mother had 'rejected' her gift, and she will not touch it again for as long she lived. Never!

She had been _so_ proud of it - had spent days and nights completing it - had worked on it with patience that would have made Patrick proud - had poured _all_ her love in it - _why_ won't Mother accept it? _What_ could possibly be wrong with it? 

Nurturing the heart that has been wounded and stabbed countless of times, Abigail went to sleep, forgetting all her rituals and prayers and goodnights to the stars. She was tired - and disappointed - and humiliated. Her pride had been stomped to pieces. She will go away now. Perhaps everything will be better when she returns at dawn tomorrow.

Downstairs, Mrs. Rogers picked up the box, which had dropped onto the nicely scrubbed floor and opened it. There was a small note, and a brooch - what an ugly brooch this is! Mrs. Rogers had no doubt Abigail had made it herself. 

'Happy Birthday, Mother,' read the crumpled note. 'From, your one and only daughter - Abigail.'

Mrs. Rogers put her knitting down, in spite of herself, and went to the room which door and windows stood ajar. Obviously, her 'one and only daughter' had forgotten to shut it. She closed the windows noiselessly, and looked about the room. Abigail was asleep under the blue quilt. Had she been - yes… Abigail had been crying. Mrs. Rogers would have spotted the tear-stained cheeks from miles away. 

"My one and only daughter," whispered Mrs. Rogers softly, smiling amusingly at the expression Abigail held on her face. "You do not belong to me anymore. You have grown apart from me, and I fear you will go on growing apart from me. One day you will be someone else's, and I pray he won't make you cry like I have."

Mrs. Rogers stood up and walked to the door. She has said what she had wanted to say, and it doesn't matter if Abigail had or had not heard it. In fact, she wasn't even _sure_ if she wanted Abigail to hear it. Perhaps it would be better if she hadn't.

"Dear Lord above, I pray that she will be a good mother someday, for her mother certainly _wasn't_!"

Nevertheless, Abigail's spirits soared high above when Mrs. Rogers walked into the kitchen the next day bearing the brooch on her chest. 

*

Fillan and Abigail walked hurriedly to the 'Deserted Tower', as they were wont to call it. It was summer now, and Patrick had wrote that he won't be back - not yet, and that they should go ahead without him.

"Oh, I see it!" Abigail cried out excitedly, as she slipped in between maple trees, and trotted on the stones carefully, lest she falls and breaks her head. "Why, it does look as if it's covered with carpet! Have you seen anything quite as beautiful before, Fillan?"

Fillan didn't answer. Abigail swung her head around and watched in amusement as he walked solemnly with his eyes fixed firmly on the stones. He had been unusually quiet today, wherever did his soul dropped off to? "Fillan? … Fillan! …. FILLAN!"

"Aye, sir!" Fillan woke with a start, carelessly slipping out 'soldier talk'. 

Abigail turned as white as a corpse. She was fully aware now that Fillan had turned eighteen a few days ago. Had he- could he have - did he took the notion to - of course he did, thought Abigail as she turned around and walked faster towards the tower. She had seen the eagerness in his eyes. Had seen the impatient look on his face as he watched other boys' sign up in envy. Oh, why hadn't she prepared herself for this, when she knew all along that it was coming?

Fillan forehead formed deep lines of concern. Had Abigail figured it out? Does she know? "Abigail-"

"We're here," Abigail interrupted flatly. "The flowers are lovely, aren't they? I must tell Mother about this. She would love to take some of them home and plant them. But of course, by doing so, it will probably ruin the entire thing. But then again, people rarely come by, don't they? Surely they wouldn't notice a missing patch, would they? Well, for one thing, I will _not_ tell anyone about this. Not even Georgia. _She_ might tell James and next thing you know, he is _sleepwalking_ over here and _tearing_ all the flowers apart-" Abigail knew she was babbling. She herself doesn't understand half the things that she says, but if babbling helps keep the unwanted words from Fillan, then babble she would! "-And of course, Wendy won't be told either. She would send lover-boy Robert over to pick some for her, and knowing Robert, he _would_ do it. He just lets Wendy manipulate him like a _string doll_, and _I_ think that is _such_ a weak point in a man-"

"Is that so?" interrupted Fillan finally, finding that his patience rather failed him today. "Then maybe I should stop _you_ from _manipulating_ the conversation lest you think _I_ am in the same race as Robert?"

"Girls have always talked a lot more than boys, so that is natural." said Abigail meekly. Quick! Babble again! "Father used to say he would _never_ see the dawn of the day when I will stop talking for even five minutes. And of course, Patrick agreed with him. He was always against me in _everything_ -"

"Yes," Fillan nodded. "Abigail, can I talk now?"

As if Fillan hadn't even said a word, Abigail 'babbled' on and on, saying everything that came into her mind. _Everything_ - except war. Fillan took that as "No, Fillan, you _cannot_ talk" and watched Abigail grimly. So, Abigail is avoiding the subject matter. _Very _well. Two can play in this game.

And so, Abigail talked till sunset. Only when they made their way home did her tongue gave protest and she was forced to keep silent. No doubt Fillan _would_ take the chance now and bring the subject up. How Abigail dreaded the moment! Often she glanced sideways at him and kept a watchful eye on his expression, so she would know when to interrupt him if he decides to open his mouth. But Fillan's mouth stayed shut, and Abigail couldn't recall the last time she had been so happy to see the front porch of Lunar Cottage.

There were several people around - old Mrs. Gardion, walking home from McAlister's shop, no doubt - she had always been known as a 'busybody', Sarah and Jubilee Carson, out for their daily rumble around the beach, most probably and Kayla Carlo, sister of Robert Carlo who was Wendy Trent's beau, walking with the same air of modesty as her brother's. It was a very inappropriate time, but Fillan knew he couldn't possibly wait any longer. Abigail has suspected his going, and there is no doubt that she would take precautions and avoid him lest he confirms her suspicion.

Abigail saw the change in his expression, and decided she had to act fast. "So, goodnight, Fillan," she said almost eagerly. She whirled around to leave, and when Fillan's hand found her arm, her eyes grew as wide as her eye-socket would allow. It has come…."Oh, no, Fillan - no."

"Oh, yes, Abigail - yes. My turn has arrived."

Abigail stared at him solemnly and said meekly: "But…your-college?"

Fillan laughed. "You really think I would stoop to such a silly thing as college when I have an opportunity to fight for the country? Honestly, Abigail, is that an insult?"

"No, of course not! But you… you-can't go. Just stay here for a while longer, Fillan. The- the war would end soon… stay here where it's safe…"

"Sometimes, Abigail," Fillan looked into the dark eyes and smiled at the deep concerned sparkle in them. Could Abigail possibly - "staying here where it's safe is even worse than being out there where it's not."

Abigail sighed. She had run out of protests. But there was one more - a little protest she was ashamed to voice, for it was such a selfish and inconsiderate one that she felt she had been possessed by a devil when she thought of it. "_Stay_ here, Fillan." she ordered firmly, much to her utter surprise. She! Ordering Fillan West around! "If not for your sake, then for _mine_!" She turned bright red like a tomato as soon as the words escaped her lips. Why, she might as well have screamed to the rest of the world that she was nothing more than a selfish brat who only wanted Fillan to herself! Patrick would have been so ashamed of her!

"Abigail-"

"I didn't say that! I didn't say that!" Abigail chanted loudly, supposing if she chanted more and more, Fillan and herself would believe it. "_I didn't say that_! You can go wherever you want, Fillan West! To the battle field or football field, wherever!"

Fillan watched in amusement as the red-faced damsel darted towards Lunar Cottage. Then he hurried after her, with his green eyes sparkling as only green eyes could sparkle and his heavy heart getting lighter and lighter with each step. So, Abigail Rogers cared for him! She _wanted_ him! How much more brighter can his world get?

Abigail, humiliated and ashamed of herself, walked as fast as her legs would carry her. She had made a _total_ fool of herself, and Fillan was probably trying to catch with her so he could tell her it was 'okay'. But Abigail knew, how she _knew_, that Fillan must have been laughing hard at her in his head! Oh, how much more darker can her world gets?

But alas, as Fillan was much older and his legs were much longer, Abigail found herself overtaken. Well, she thought to herself, at least I can be assured that he is able to run fast should the Germans start bombing him!

"Abigail," panted Fillan softly, slightly out of breath. "Tell me if it's or if it's not true, that you care for me far more than you … than you-"

"- than I was supposed to," nodded Abigail, turning as red as ever. Oh, she will remember this humiliating moment for the rest of her horrible life! "I'm sorry, Fillan. This was _not_ supposed to happen. Patrick _never_ intended this to occur and I _never _thought-" Abigail was cut short for Fillan had clasped his hands over hers and she found it rather distracting. She waited anxiously for Fillan to burst laughing and say something sarcastic - she couldn't think of Fillan doing anything else, but it never came. Instead:

"Abigail, will you promise me that once everything is over, once all these wars and deaths and politics is over - you will be my wife?"

If it was possible that a human's mouth could drop to the ground, Abigail's would have dropped and rolled all over the ground by now. Good _grief_! Had Fillan dropped his brain somewhere near the tower, if he even had one? "Your wife? Me?"

"No, the apple tree."

There! Sarcasm! Abigail hadn't been dreaming! Fillan was _never_ sarcastic in her dreams! And yet she _loved_ the sarcasm with all her heart! Her face glowed in dim sunlight, the redness and the humiliation of the previous incident clearly forgotten. Smiling at her own stupidity, Abigail looked at Fillan, her eyes sparkling just as much as his were, and whispered - despite the urge to scream her heart out - the fateful and long-awaited word, said by many women to many eager men across the land for many centuries: "_Yes_."

Fillan, who thought his sarcastic little comment - which he hadn't mean to say but couldn't resist the temptation- had blown everything apart, smiled, despite his pounding heart. Now, just one more thing…

Abigail, realising what Fillan was about to do as he bent his handsome head low, scanned the area consciously for any sign of anyone who might see them and spread the news - especially Mrs. Gardion, thought Abigail, who walked slow and couldn't have walked all that far from Lunar Cottage ever since they last saw her - suppose she saw and heard everything? Abigail certainly didn't want the villagers discussing her first kiss among themselves. Maybe she should warn Fillan - oh, never mind.

"Sweet dreams," whispered Fillan as he stepped back and turned to leave. Abigail watched him disappear in the dark silhouette of the night, and sighed in contentment. She kept on staring although Fillan had long gone, and fiddled with the thought of her becoming Mrs. West a.k.a Abigail West. _Abigail West_! thought Abigail, wincing slightly. Why, that name sounded as if it belonged to a train station!

But at least it's better than Abigail _East_ - or Abigail _North_ - or Abigail _South_! 

And with that satisfying comeback, Abigail went to bed - after greeting the two 'Father and Patrick' stars that had never failed to be up there in the sky - her soul brimming with pride and happiness. Then she remembered that Fillan was going tomorrow, and her heart turned sour. She found herself cursing the Germans with such curses that she never knew she knew, and goodness knows what would have happened if Mrs. Rogers had heard her!

*

This is was the second time Abigail had been at the train station, bidding yet another one of her beloved a goodbye, and even by now she loathed the whole place. She despised each and every inch of the railway track and worst of all, she hated the grumpy fat man who yelled: "All aboard!" just as unfeelingly as he had six months ago, when he had taken away Patrick and Mr. Rogers and other men who weren't important to her, but probably was to some people, and perhaps some women as well. 

"I tell you," Greg was telling Fillan, who looked as if he would rather face a dozen German soldiers rather than hear what Greg had to say. "You just fight your butt off, and once I turn eighteen, I'll come and I'll win the war for you, okay?" Fillan nodded absently, his grim yet bright eyes fixed firmly on Abigail, who was looking at everybody in the platform except him. 

An old woman on a wheelchair whom Abigail didn't recognise wheeled beside her and wiped her tear-stained face hastily. A young man in khaki quickly ran up to her and said in a somewhat comforting way: "Nanny, please don't cry," to which the old woman hotly replied: "My youth and strength has left me, must my one and only grandson do so too?" The young man looked exasperated. "Nanny, I am _not_ leaving you! I am only going abroad to help the country! I will be back sooner than you expect."

"Aah, the same old line," cried the old woman, flinging her wet handkerchief over her head. "I have heard dozens of young man say that, and have any managed to keep their words? None. I am _not_ a fool, Frederick. You are not going there to _help_, but rather to get yourself _killed_…." The young man - Frederick, if Abigail wasn't mistaken - after noticing Abigail watching them, quickly wheeled his nanny away - much to Abigail's relief. She would have launched into another one of her there-are-other-people-like-you-suffering-out-there-miss speeches, and somehow, she felt the old woman would not appreciated it if she had done so. 

A young lady gave out a shriek and immediately rushed out of the building. Abigail looked at the young man whom the lady had left behind and felt sorry at the heartbroken look on his face as he picked up his bag in embarrassment - for almost everyone was looking at him. 

"Father, why did that woman scream?" Abigail turned around and saw a five-year-old girl tugging on her father's khaki. "Did that man do anything bad to her?" Her father smiled reassuringly at her and said nothing. The young girl tugged again, more firmly this time. "Father, is everyone in that dress like yours goin' to town to-day? Are they goin' to the sp'cial meetin' too?" the girl surveyed the crowd doubtfully. "Oh well," she said at last, turning to her father again. "Don't forget to bring in the chicky-let when you come back, 'kay?" The father nodded and Abigail supposed that the 'chicky-let' the little girl had mentioned was in fact, 'chocolate'. She lifted her gaze to the woman beside the father, and saw that she was struggling not to scream aloud like the previous one had. There were remorse in her eyes, for she probably felt guilty of lying at her young gullible daughter. But yet, she knew it was the right thing to do, and Abigail would have agreed enthusiastically with her. 

Abigail found herself wishing she was just as gullible as the little girl, and that someone would come to her and say that nothing was happening, and that there was nothing to worry about, and that Father and Patrick had only gone to town to buy some 'chicky-let' for her. But then she took back her wish, for if she had _not_ known of the war, she and Patrick would _never_ have taken the initiative to break the walls between them, and she would _never_ have made friends with Fillan and fall in love with him, and he might have _married_ Dorothy off and have _babies_ with her…

At that very moment, Abigail's eyes caught Dorothy's white-blond head bobbing over the rest of the heads. Dorothy Clint was tall, perhaps even taller than Fillan by a slight few inches. Abigail had always wished she was as tall as Dorothy, but when she heard the number of times Dorothy had banged her nose against the wall because she was too tall and had to bend down to go through, she quickly changed her mind. 

So, The Clints are here… probably to persuade Fillan into marrying Dorothy again. Abigail watched from the corner of her eyes as Dorothy chatted Fillan up and - my! Dorothy _was_ taller than Fillan! Had she grown up overni- oh. She was wearing heels. 

Abigail snorted silently. She wondered naughtily how Dorothy would react when she finds out that, she, Abigail Rogers was engaged to - but no. She had been so determined to keep it a _sacred_ secret - she was really fond of sacred secrets - and even Mrs. Rogers herself had no clue of the incident - Abigail decided she won't tell her either, Mother or not Mother - so why should Dorothy Clint, who had no ties with her _at all_, know?

Well, here comes the train, snorting and coughing worse than ever. And here's that grumpy old man. Yelling "All aboard!" indeed! Abigail wondered if he would still say those two words if _he_ had been the one going over to the battlefield, or if _he_ had been the one watching a relative or someone he cares for - if there's any, for Abigail felt he _looked_ as if he hadn't a care for anyone except himself.

Everyone was rushing about now - girls were sobbing even louder - dogs barking and trying to drag their masters away from that horrible black snorting machine - husbands and wives bidding each other goodbye, probably for ever - _where on earth_ is Fillan, for heaven's sake?

Then Fillan appeared in front of her as if he had magicked himself right there. He seized her hands, and wondered if he should, or should not, kiss Abigail? She had insisted that he shouldn't, something about sacred secrets - which Fillan had not paid attention to because he was too busy trying not to laugh - oh never mind! 

Abigail wondered cruelly - as Fillan kissed her quickly but firmly - if Dorothy was somewhere watching? The place was buzzing with people and men in khakis, it was quite impossible for anyone to notice what has happened, but what if? Fillan pressed her ring finger meaningfully and smiled, and then - he was gone, as if he had been blown away by the wind unnoticed. 

The train disappeared too, but more noticeably, for it's snorting and coughing was rather hard to miss. Well, thought Abigail as she watched the train rounding the curve, That is done and over with. Perhaps she should go home now and do something about her shaky hands, for they _were_ shaking alarmingly, and have a cup of tea to calm herself down and kneel down by her window and pray…

Her eyes rested on the old woman on the wheelchair who was sobbing restlessly - Frederick must have gone despite her pleas, after all - and realised in agony that Frederick's nanny would not be able to kneel down and pray like everyone else could.

Abigail made a mental note to pray for Frederick - whoever he was - in behalf of the old woman. Yes, she would have to kneel longer - Abigail hated kneeling, her knees were bound to turn blue every time she finished - but she felt it would be worth it. Besides, she would have been thankful if someone had prayed for Father, Patrick and Fillan if, say, something happened to her legs, wouldn't she?

*

It was the day after Christmas, and Abigail spent from dawn to evening cleaning the house grumpily - for Mrs. Rogers foreboded her from visiting anyone on Christmas yesterday - when the news that her mother brought after returning from McAlister's shop sent Abigail screaming in horror and running as fast as she could towards Crystal Beam, where Derrane Frank lay sobbing in her room like one whose soul had been robbed and taken away. 

Mr. Frank had died of pneumonia - the weather at the battlefield couldn't have been any worse. He had reportedly died peacefully, amid heavy coughs and the strain of people dying all around him, as he lay, unable to help, which to Derrane, was even worse than her father being shot down. Mr. Frank had always been fond of helping others. How he must have suffered in those last moments in his life, feeling empty and weak - and _useless_!

"Oh, Derrane!" cried Abigail as she stepped into the room and watched the slender silhouette of her friend shake against the still background, not quite knowing what to do. She wasn't feeling what Derrane was feeling, and she dared not say something lest it sounded offensive. 

Derrane cried even harder. She had always told Abigail how she hated people who cry like babies, and yet, here she is, _doing_ it, with Abigail Rogers at the sideline watching! "Go away, Abigail," she said hastily. "Leave me so I can live the rest of my lonely life peacefully."

"Derrane, don't say that. You're not alone. I'm here, I'll always be here…."

"_Liar_! Where have you been all this while? I've been crying since morning, and did you ever think of coming to see me when I needed you the _most_? No! You were probably too busy opening your Christmas presents! Go away, Abigail Rogers! Go worry about getting into college!"

Abigail found the last statement hitting her sensitive heart with a full blow, and she glared at Derrane, forgetting for that split moment that Derrane's father had just passed away. "I was not opening any Christmas presents!" she screamed. "You know _very well_ that we don't buy papers anymore, Derrane Frank! I am _not_ to be blamed for the late arrival of the news to my ear!"

"Is this how you treat your friends who are depressed?" said Derrane icily, her tears clearly gone, now replaced with glowing cheeks of anger. "Honestly, Abigail, I had expected more from you. Just wait till _your_ father dies - then _you_ will see how it feels like!"

Abigail's eyes grew wide. "How dare you!" she yelled with such a final tone to it that Derrane felt her heart breaking all over again as she watched Abigail fled down the creaky stairs of Crystal Beam and out of the house with sudden hot tears bursting out of her eyes.

Derrane stared after the ajar door like one stunned. Then she collapsed onto her bed and buried her head into her pillow, where her sobs were soon joined with the sobs of a young maiden in Lunar Cottage - much to the surprise of Mrs. Rogers -, filling the empty and soundless December night.


	4. Stars Don't Shine Forever

A/N: This is the first time I'm writing an Author's Note (I would have written sooner, but I was afraid I'd babble just as long as my story, so I didn't!) J Thank you for your reviews, Gueck Thea, Christine, Merky, Anne, Laurie, kaygirl and ppl who I may have forgotten to mention (oh! Yasmine!) . I really appreciate it! 

It was four months before Abigail and Derrane could stand being face to face with each other, and even by then, the sting still prodded them. The old cheerful greetings and handshakes and hugs and comrade fun were gone - perhaps, never to return. Instead, grim and firm 'hellos' and half-hearted smiles took place. 

"Derrane Frank has been getting along with her father's death very well, isn't she?" commented Greg West one day as he walked Abigail home from church.

"Yes." replied Abigail curtly, much to Greg's surprise. He had heard from a very reliable source that Abigail Rogers and Derrane Frank had a fight, and clearly, neither of them had apologised to each other. It was up to Derrane now, for Greg knew the Rogers' pride as he knew his name, and he wouldn't bet on Abigail apologising - even if it _was_ her fault!

"Will you be coming to tea tomorrow evening?" Greg asked as they reached the front gate of Lunar Cottage. "I suppose I will be able to show you around the graveyard then."

Abigail nodded absently and waited as Greg walked away. Mrs. West often asked her for tea every now and then. On the first day she had went, Abigail had managed to spill three cupfuls of tea on the tablecloth - Mrs. West's brand new ones, as she found out later - and had kept so unusually quiet that it created a rather uncomfortable atmosphere. She wasn't entirely sure of what Mrs. West thought of her now, and she didn't want to know what Mrs. West _would_ think of her when she finds out that this clumsy ox was engaged to her son! 

And as for the graveyard, Greg had insisted on her seeing it. Said something about how Fillan and he used to go there every Sunday to calm their minds, but Abigail knew better. The only thing a West would do at a graveyard would consist of stomping on the tombs of their enemy's father or grandfather or great grandfather. She had overheard Patrick telling Father that Fillan West had once kicked Arthur Water's tomb when Hans Water stole his lunch, which sent Mr. Rogers howling with laughter, much to the disgust of Mrs. Rogers. 

Mrs. Rogers was in the kitchen when Abigail walked in, which was an unexpected surprise for she was usually over at McAlister's shop. "I'm a bit tired today," she answered when Abigail inquired. 

"You should rest, Mother," said Abigail as she scooped up two letters from the small pile on the table. "I can do the work as long as you give me clear instructions."

Mrs. Rogers took it as an insult to her capability, and she sent the confused maiden to her room, where Abigail spent the next hour reading the letters Patrick and Fillan had sent her. Father rarely sends her letters - he writes them to Mother instead, and somehow, Abigail felt there was more to it that what her mother had allowed her to know. 

Patrick's letter was cheerful and light, filled with a dozen or more 'I hopes'; 'I hope you and Mother are doing fine', 'I hope James is still around and had not sleepwalked into the sea', 'I hope you were joking about wanting me to marry' and so on. There was also a short description on the ongoing in the battlefield, but Abigail skipped that paragraph. She wasn't interested. 

Fillan's letter, however, was filled with harmless sarcasm, and lines here and there that made Abigail's face turn hot, either in embarrassment or disbelief. 'All this secrecy is killing me,' he wrote. 'Almost all the men here are engaged -_almost_- and I just _had_ to tell them that I was too. But not to worry, I didn't tell anyone whom the _luck_y damsel was - which made matters _worse_, because Patrick had started teasing me about Dorothy. _That_ brother of yours _knows_ very well that I don't give a horse's hoof about Dorothy Clint, and yet he's just doing it to _vex_ me into telling him!'

Mrs. Rogers glanced up at the ceiling, as if she could see right through it into Abigail's room. What on earth was Abigail laughing like that for? Why, people were bound to think that she, Martha Rogers, was rearing a lunatic!

*

"Elaine West," read Greg as he stared stonily at the tombstone at his feet, with weeds creeping all over it. "That's my great grandmother. Poisoned herself, thinking Dean Von had left her when he was just over harbour on a business trip. Came back and found her dead. Got a shock and moved away."

Abigail shuddered, picturing the poisoned face of Elaine West lying underneath her very feet. She thought it was such a tragic, but yet such a stupid way to die, but did not dare say so lest Greg gets offended. 

"This tomb belongs to Matthew Ferdinand," continued Greg. "He went sailing years ago and never returned. Dead, the people supposed. So they put up a tomb for him. Then he came back, unshaven and all." Abigail's eyes grew wide. Greg grinned. "But he died two days after, so the tomb wasn't wasted after all!"

"Julia Kirk. She poisoned her husband when she caught him on a bench with someone else. See that, Abigail? That's her husband's tomb. I suppose the townspeople buried him far away from Julia for precautions! And that's William Andrews. He lived in an old cottage by the shore, all alone. Didn't have much of a family. Never married anyone. Thinks that women are bad luck."

Abigail narrowed her eyes. Bad luck, eh?

"Shane Canin. A fine man, they say. Had the brains and the looks. But he never married though, ever since Vanessa Sil left him and married someone else."

"Why would she do that if Shane's such a fine man?" asked Abigail curiously.

"How should I know?" replied Greg, leading her around a broken tomb. "Maybe he wasn't as fine as people thought he was. Maybe he fooled the people into thinking that he was such a perfect angel. People do that, you know. Like Fillan."

"_What_ about Fillan?"

Greg raised his eyebrows at Abigail's tone. "He isn't any better than I am - he pulls worse tricks than I do when he was my age, you know - and people seem to worship him. All the things about Queens and college…" Greg shook his head. "Almost drove me crazy."

"Well, why don't you outshine him, for heaven's sake?" Abigail said impatiently. "Go to Queens, be one of her best students, go to college, be a BA if you want to be worshipped so much!"

"I _don't_ want to outshine him," Greg said defiantly. "I just wished people wouldn't make such a fuss over it and stop bothering him. In fact, I wish he never had taken the notion to go to college! Why? Because he's such a changed person! He simply refuses to have fun with me anymore, and it's such a shame because he has the best ideas."

"Well," murmured Abigail. "I personally think it's a relief that you two won't go around putting snakes in people's carriages anymore. And I suppose scaring poor Mr. Johnson last year was Fillan's idea too?"

"No, that was my idea." Greg smiled proudly. "And besides, it was only a rubber snake! Who would have thought it would practically kill Mr. Johnson? Abigail! I'm _not_ a murderer!"

"I didn't say you were."

"Yes, but you _looked_ it. Anyway, here's Theresa Bone. Died when she was a baby. That's why the tomb is so small. People say she died of pneumonia, but everyone knows her mother drowned her in a basin by accident. And there's Joanne Rhymes. A pretty girl. Murdered by her best friend, Amy Hun. Jealous of Joanne. But she got caught and sentenced to death. There, do you see that one far ahead? That's her tomb. Amy Hun's tomb. This is Mark Furr. Died at the age of 100. He never did anything other than drink and gamble all his life. He got a heart attack when he lost his entire wealth to some stupid gambler. And this is- oh? Is it sunset already. Very well. I'll walk you home, Abigail."

"You really know the people who occupy this graveyard, don't you?" asked Abigail as they walked past the entrance, where two maple trees grew, rather at an unusual place. "You seem to remember their stories very well."

"Their stories?" Greg shook his head and laughed. "Why, Abigail, I'm afraid you got it all wrong. Fillan and I made them all up."

*

'Dear Fillan,' wrote Abigail. 'I wanted to start with something more affectionate than 'Dear Fillan' (honestly, I sound as if I'm writing to my _grandfather_!), but Father - or worse, Patrick - might see it, so be content. I do _not_ care if you _die_ out of all the secrecy. And good heavens, Fillan! Your Italics are far _worse_ than mine!'

'But I suppose there will be no _spice_ without Italics, don't you think?'

'I was walking home from Double Bay - Wendy was crying in happiness because Robert Carlo recently broke his ankle when he fell off his horse and won't be able to join you in the battlefield - much to _my_ disgust. Wendy said she loved Robert too much to let him go, but really, I love you just as much (maybe even _more_…) and _I_ was _willing_ to let you go.'

'Oh, all right. I _wasn't_ willing, but I was tolerant!'

'By the way, where was I?'

'Well, I was walking home, and Mr. Johnson happened to come along the way and offered me a ride. I accepted and who do you think was sitting right there among the dry straws opposite me?'

__

'Oliver Kirk.'

'I will _never_ get to see the last of her, will I? She didn't speak to me at all (not surprisingly) and was _extremely_ snappish whenever Mr. Johnson talked to her. I found out that she was on her way home from town (making plans on eloping again, _I_ would say). We dropped her off at her mansion - oh, which reminds me - I _never _ever want to live in a mansion (I heard they have over a hundred staircases in there) (I bet the Kirks spend half their lives searching for the right stairs!) and I will _never ever_ wish of going to one of Oliver Kirk's party again. She is not worth the while, believe me!'

'And yes, I am saying this out of personal grudge.'

'Anyway, where was I?'

'I keep losing directions of what I am or was talking about, and it's rather frustrating! Fillan, _where_ was I?'

'Oh! I just remembered! Well, I went the rest of the way home with Mr. Johnson, and you should've heard of all the things he muttered about Oliver! He said she was a rude, spoiled, baby of a girl, and he couldn't see why the other girls would worship her so much. I think he was saying all these things just because Oliver hadn't even taken the notion to say 'thank you', but nevertheless, I enjoyed it!'

'And Mr. Johnson even said I was _such_ a charming girl!'

'Now, maybe you would like to know that I have just found out how you have spent your childhood? Making up stories of dead people, indeed! If Greg hadn't told me that it was your (and his) _masterpiece_ when he brought me to the graveyard and told me their stories, I would've gone around babbling about it to the other villagers, and goodness knows _what_ would've happened! I could have been sentenced to court, with my luck! Honestly, Fillan, I suppose you would start making ridiculous stories of me when _I_ die too?'

'Derrane is fine, if I'm not mistaken. She has grown used to her father's death and it's a relief….. probably. I have been too busy lately to really take notice of the things happening around me. And I don't know where you got the idea of me keeping something from you. I'm _fine_. Derrane and I are fine, if _that's_ what you had intended to find out. We're just not... on friendly terms.' 

'I'm not lonely, don't worry.'

'In fact, I just rescued a kitten from drowning in the lake yesterday. It's such a small mite of a creature, like a shrunken tiger, with black and white stripes. I think he (I'm still not sure if it's a 'he' or a 'she', but never mind) was trying to drink from the lake and accidentally dropped in. Well, lucky I walked by, wasn't it?'

'Mother threw a huge racket at home when she saw me bringing it home - naturally. She threw the kitten out and he refused to budge from the front door, and finally I slipped him in at midnight, planning to bring it out again first thing at dawn. But I overslept, and when Mother came in and saw him curled up beside my head, it was like a _nightmare _becoming _reality_! It served me right, though, for being such stubborn fool, but Mother was surprisingly nice (after screaming at me for a while), and she actually _agreed_ to let me keep it!'

'She probably thinks I'm lonely.'

'But I'm not.'

'Georgia brought James over this afternoon and he spent the entire visit chasing the poor kitten and pulling it's tail. And he also insisted on calling it McKitty, and I _couldn't_ resist those big blue eyes! So McKitty it was! But I didn't find his eyes _that_ alluring when he tried to apologise for throwing McKitty to the ground from my bedroom window. _My_ bedroom window! McKitty could have been _killed_!'

'I predict more visits from James from now on.'

'And I predict that McKitty won't live long!'

'Yours forever and ever (I suppose I can slip up from time to time, can't I?),' 

'Abigail Rogers.'

*

On one very windy and very late May night, where all the souls of the dead seemed to be coming out from their graves and mourning along with the horrible weather, Derrane Frank woke up with a start.

Her eyes were as round as saucers, and her lips quivered restlessly.

The next morning, she headed for Lunar Cottage at the crack of dawn, oblivious to her straggly hair and the fact that she was still wearing her nightgown. The villagers were all still asleep, and only the sounds of Derrane's rushed footsteps broke the eerie silence as the sun slowly rose from the eastern side of the world. 

Derrane knocked on Lunar Cottage several times nervously, as if she would rather be somewhere else, but yet had to brave through it for it was her duty.

"McKitty!" there was a yell in the cottage. Derrane's head snapped up in shock. "I saved your life from a horrifying death and this is what I get? Poop all over the house?" There was a stampede. Derrane knocked again, and the door swung open to reveal Abigail Rogers in her nightdress with cats fur sticking out. 

"Derrane Frank," murmured Abigail, eyes narrowed the sight of her lost friend, and a tone as cold as the morning breeze. They stared at each other awkwardly and uncomfortably. 

Then Derrane, remembering what she was here for, attempted a fake cough and shivered slightly, not at the temperature, but at the gaze Abigail held on her, as if she was Oliver Kirk instead of Derrane Frank. "I-I had a dream, Abigail," she said hoarsely, and winced at the look Abigail gave her which clearly stated: And what does your dream has to do with me?. Why did Abigail Rogers have to be so good in facial expressions? Derrane wished Abigail hadn't a face to play around with! "It was a - a nightmare…. I-I.."

"What was it about?" Abigail asked coldly and flatly, rather as if she was asking it out of politeness, and not out of interest.

Derrane didn't dare open her mouth. Why, why, _why_ did she even think of doing this? Won't she be better off sipping tea at home and leaving Abigail with her own worries? "It was about your…."

"My what?" It was snappy, but Derrane thought it was less colder.

"Your father, Abigail…." Derrane looked away. Oh, can she possibly do this? "And- and your brother."

"What about them?" Abigail had taken a step to the front. The coldness had disappeared. There were concern and anxiousness as she stared at Derrane in the eye, waiting for the next blow. "What, Derrane? WHAT?"

Derrane's face betrayed her and if only her legs could move, instead of staying glued to the grounds of Lunar Cottage, she would have run away by now. "I dreamt that- that they were…. Shot…… To death."

"DERRANE FRANK!" Abigail's face was a shimmering colour of magenta, and never had Derrane seen her so stiff before. "I should have known! You're still mad at me, aren't you? _Aren't you_?" Derrane stepped back as Abigail took warning steps to the front. "Well, Miss Frank, you can say it to my face! You _don't_ have to drag my father and brother into- into this idiotic fight that we had!"

"Abigail!" wailed Derrane vainly. "It was a dream! It was _only _a dream!"

"Get out, Derrane," Abigail hissed.

"Abigail-"

"Are you deaf, Derrane Frank? I said get out."

Derrane sobbed wildly. She was dying to go home and cry till the end of her life, but there was one more thing she must acknowledge. "Abigail," she begged with choked voice. "I will go, I will go. But Patrick - I saw him, Abigail! I _saw_ him! He was standing there, with your father… he told me to tell you …. said he knew - knew your scared secret - said he was going now - had done his duty -"

"GET OUT!"

Derrane burst out of the front gate and ran as fast as she could, oblivious to the stares that the early people getting out of the houses shot her. She didn't care. She only wanted to go home. Yes, go home - and cry - and fade away like Patrick Rogers did in that vivid dream she had had last night. 

That stupid dream!

It was only a dream! It _couldn't_ be true! Why was she such a fool to go and upset Abigail so? Abigail would think she was doing it on purpose and out of grudge! Why, Abigail _did_ think she was doing it on purpose!

It couldn't be true. It _couldn't_! Mr. Rogers and Patrick Rogers are fine - they are out there fighting. They couldn't be dead…. _That_ was her father, Mr. Frank. Derrane rushed into her room and sobbed restlessly, shaking with a slight fear at the vivid dream she had had, and at the fact that she, Derrane Frank, was probably going raving mad.

Back in Lunar Cottage, Abigail sat on the edge of her bed stiffly - so stiffly you would think she had frozen - and stared at the floor underneath her feet. Her face showed no emotion, but underneath that, her brain twisted, debating on Derrane Frank's statement and her heart sank to the bottom of her legs. 

Abigail remembered once when she and Derrane were mere five-year-olds and Derrane had owned a kitten named Ginger, who disappeared one evening. Derrane had had a dream that it had got lost and now lay dead stiff near the coastline. They had hunted Ginger down, and found him exactly in the spot and the condition that Derrane had dreamed it. 

Of course, then they were too young to know what it meant. But now, Abigail saw, saw it so clearly that Derrane Frank had 'sixth sense'. Could this dream possibly mean…?

No, Derrane Frank was _lying_. She was only saying that to upset her, only saying that to avenge her, only saying that to scare her. And yet, it bothered Abigail. Bothered her so greatly that she stayed put on her bed till nightfall, her stiffness never lessening, and her eyes continuing to stare at the empty space between her and the floor.

Derrane Frank was lying, repeated Abigail to herself. That no good daughter of a … of a man hadn't anything better to do. Derrane still hated her, still grasping the grudge since last Christmas. Father and Patrick are all right. They hadn't been shot down. They are somewhere north, still alive, still fighting. 

But when Abigail looked at the dark sky that night, she discovered something that made her gasp silently and shake with fear.

The Father and Patrick stars were gone.

A call came at midnight. Abigail listened to it, still stiff. She heard Mother slipping by the door saying aloud so Abigail would hear her: "It is just too sad that I have daughter who doesn't know how to pick up a phone when's it is supposed to be picked up." Nevertheless, the ringing stopped. Mrs. Rogers had answered it.

Then a horrified scream rang across the corridors of Lunar Cottage, and Abigail hung her head and slipped into the darkest corner of her room and sobbed till sunrise.

A/N: Me again. Hope you enjoyed that. I'm loaded with homework nowadays and I can only write a chapter a week (kinda shows how stressful school can be!). So please be patient. Anyway, thanks again for the reviews (and don't stop!)


	5. It Ain't Easy to Say Goodbye

A/N: Hullo! I've finally gotten rid of all my homework (hooray!) and this is the result! ^_^. It's a bit short, but I'll try to make it longer in the future chapters, so you people will bore your eyes out when you read them :P. Thanks for reviewing (really, I love you guys!)

Merky: Glad that you like my story. And guess what? There IS a letter from Fillan this time! Hope you'll enjoy it!

Gueck Thea: I like Fillan too! J Maybe I should kill him too - to make the story more tragic !_! 

Christine: I dunno if I want people to know they're engaged….. that would not be fun! But yeah, I know it's a bit frustrating that nobody knows about it! Just wait and see. Have fun in the meantime!

Mrs. Rogers lay sick on her bed for weeks. This new worry, plus the previous ones, pressed upon Abigail so badly that she felt there was no way she was ever going to survive. But survive she did, and when Fillan's letter arrived a week after that, she felt her heart getting slightly lighter, for she had expected someone to call and tell her Fillan West too, was shot dead.

'I saw him die, Abigail. I saw Patrick die', wrote Fillan, whose letters had once been so light and mischievous now held neither traits. 'He was right beside me. Just over at my left, shooting and yelling away - and suddenly, he was down on the muddy ground. He was muttering your name, and your mother's….. and I told him.'

'I told him we were engaged.'

'He looked shocked at first, and I thought I had killed him for sure (somehow, I do not think being shot down and being shocked mix well together) ….. but then he smiled and told me he had suspected it all along.'

'Then he slipped away.'

'It was… indescribable…. seeing your best friend of fifteen years die…. I pray you will never experience such a thing, Abigail.'

'I hope you're coping well with everything. This is hard on you, but whatever happens, please take GOOD care of yourself. I know a soldier whose fiancé starved herself to death when her uncle died at battle. Please _feed_ yourself well.'

'Is your mother all right? Tell her Mr. Rogers died a very easy death, not as how people have exaggerated. He wasn't shot down, he wasn't captured and murdered (this is what you were told, wasn't it?). He didn't suffer. He died quietly and peacefully.' 

'And yes, both Patrick and I were by his bedside.'

'Take care now, and hold on to your senses - a girl had jumped from a cliff when she found out her cousin had been shot, and another one placed her house on fire and was burned to death after she received a call - someone in her family must've had a tragedy.'

'What I am trying to say is: _Don't be stupid_.'

'I _need_ you.'

'If you ever get those dark moments such as I have, Abigail, then think of me - and _live for me_, as how _I _live for _you_.'

'Yours only, Fillan.'

*

All week long Lunar Cottage was flooded with sympathetic visitors. Mrs. Hunberg came with Georgia and James, who ran after McKitty as soon as he stepped foot into the grounds. Mrs. Trent and Wendy came too, although they weren't much help for they'd listed down why it was good of Mr. Rogers to go - "Why, Martha dear, he has experienced enough to last him forever", "Oh, Martha, it is time he goes. Perhaps it is for the better. Perhaps something horrible was in his path, and the al-Mighty decided to save him before it occurred" - to which Mrs. Rogers burst crying and howled on for ages.

Wendy too, had attempted to comfort Abigail - and _would_ have succeeded if she hadn't added: "My, I am glad Robert didn't go and get shot dead."

Even Mrs. Gardion, the village's busiest busybody, found time to come over and stay for tea, all the while muttering things such as: "It is a relief that that Patrick of yours isn't here to make more trouble, Martha, like when he tripped over my foot and twisted it ten years ago" "My, don't you wish you had pushed Arthur to go to church more often, Martha? I suppose you would want to push this Abigail here too? Before she too, goes dead?"

Mrs. Rogers acted deaf and snuggled deeper into her quilt, and Abigail somehow managed to slip out more than one sarcastic comment every time Mrs. Gardion spoke to or of her. Soon, she annoyed Mrs. Gardion out of the house and out of her life - for Mrs. Gardion never spoke to her or dropped by after that.

One evening, Abigail had seen Derrane walk down the lane towards Lunar Cottage, and her heart skipped a beat. The last time Derrane had done so, Abigail had screamed at her, and she regretted it. 

But when Derrane saw Abigail standing over at the front porch, she hesitated and then quickly spun around and headed the opposite way, going furiously red. Forgetting the existence of pride, Abigail ran after her, looking absurdly funny as she hastily pulled her skirt up and held it.

"Derrane! Derrane! Wait!"

Derrane turned to halt and twirled around nervously. She had wanted to go and see how Abigail was doing, and then had remembered at the very last second that Abigail and she weren't on visiting terms with each other. 

Abigail stopped and struggled to breathe furiously. "Tell me -" she panted heavily, holding up a hand in the air. "Tell me more about your dream, Derrane."

Derrane's eyes widened. "M-my dream?"

"Yes, your dream. What else did Patrick say? How did he look like?"

"He- he didn't say much," Derrane struggled to keep herself still. "He said his time had come. Said he had done as much as he could. That he knew your sacred secret…. Wished you luck, I think. Your father was right behind him.." Derrane saw Abigail flinch. "Did they die at the same time?"

"No." Abigail answered, apparently toneless. "Father died first. He wasn't shot dead. He died quietly. Patrick got shot hours after that."

Derrane nodded. 

They stared at each other for a few moments, half expecting the other one to yell out and say: "Let's be friends again!" But then Abigail's pride returned to her and-

"Thank you." She said curtly.

Derrane's brows joined together in a slight frown. "Whatever for?"

"For preparing me for the worst." answered Abigail simply. Then she turned and walked away.

*

The next few weeks saw Mrs. Rogers' health failing her. At nights her sobs filled the eerie emptiness of the atmosphere, and in the mornings, it was nothing unusual to see her eyes red and bulging. 

Most of her time was spent in bed, worrying and fretting and mourning. Abigail often watched her mother eat breakfast on the bed from her bedside, and wondered silently what was troubling her mother? Abigail had painfully gotten used to the fact that Patrick and Father had gone and won't be coming back. Hadn't Mother got used to it? Perhaps it's much harder to accept when it is your husband and son, rather than if it's your father and brother?

As fate would have had it, Mrs. Rogers passed away in the still July evening, so quietly that Abigail didn't notice it until she poked her head into the room to ask if Mother wanted anything and turned blue at the sight of her grey face.

Abigail didn't cry, and neither did she scream. It was as if she had had enough of crying and screaming, and only wanted to watch someone else die without saying a word. And of all people, it had to be Mother.

Everything that happened after that - Mrs. Hunberg and Georgia arriving in the middle of the night after receiving Abigail's call - the small funeral held for the memory of Martha Rogers, attended only by the three of them, Abigail, Georgia and Mrs. Hunberg - the frequent calls that came pouring into Lunar Cottage - Georgia coming over in the evenings and staring at Abigail from the corner of her eyes, as if expecting her to burst crying or reveal a speck of emotion (for Abigail had been unusually flat and emotionless ever since that night) - were only a mere daze.

That fortnight, Abigail received a call she had been expecting - and dreading - from Aunt Margaret, who lived over harbour and rarely visited unless it was important enough to fit her standards. "Is that you, Abigail?" croaked Aunt Margaret over the phone as Abigail stared emptily at the walls ahead. "Now, dear. Don't you be sad now. I am here to save you. Do pack your bags this very night - Ernie, the caretaker will be picking you up at noon tomorrow. Abigail? Abigail? Are you listening?"

"… Yes."

"My, it _is _horrible isn't it? These things happening to such little girls like you. Now, now. Everything will be all right once you come to my mansion. Come now. I will see you tomorrow. Is that clear, Abigail?"

"Yes."

"Very well. I will see you tomorrow then. Goodbye."

Abigail placed the receiver down and found her way to the nearest seat, her face as blank as ever, but with blotches of red on the cheeks. Aunt Margaret had called - had _ordered_ her to come and stay over, in fact. And hadn't even bothered to ask for Abigail's opinion or agreement, come to that. 

But at least she had called. And had offered a home. 

Of course, Lunar Cottage was home. It will always be her home. But Abigail felt she couldn't live there anymore, what with ghostly figures of Father and Mother and Patrick popping up in every corner that she turned to. They made her feel queasy, made her feel as if she should be a ghostly figure too, and go get drowned. 

But worst of all, it made her feel alone. And Abigail Rogers isn't used to being alone.

*

The next morning came faster than Abigail would wish for. It seemed as if it wasn't more than a minute after Abigail had finished packing and laid her head on her pillow that the sun was already hovering over the eastern side. 

She was done packing now. Her room stood empty and dull as she dragged her luggage downstairs. Lunar Cottage was quieter than it had ever been, interrupted frequently by McKitty's lazy purrs as he snuggled deep into a pincushion and watched Abigail huffing and puffing all over the house. 

Lastly, when everything was done and double-checked, and the sun was reaching just over her head, Abigail stepped inside and walked to every crook and corner of the house, deep in thought, stopping sometimes to stare at things that reminded her of whatever they remind her of. Then the sound of Ernie Cognate yelling at the top of his lungs for her - "Oi! Abigail! Good Scott, we dun have all day!" - startled the poor damsel and she walked back out, somehow determinedly.

Well, she's leaving Lunar Cottage now - with its beauty and charm and fond memories - perhaps she will come back, perhaps she won't. And McKitty - that poor thing hadn't an idea of what is happening, thought Abigail with a spark of amusement, pray that blessed thing will be fine here, Aunt Margaret would never agree to him. 

Ernie loaded everything up and hastily settled himself beside Abigail. "You sure you ain't leavin' anything behind, young Miss Rogers?" 

Abigail looked at him solemnly. "I'm leaving _everything _behind, Ernie."

Ernie simply nodded, although he hadn't understood a word 'young Miss Rogers' had said. "Giddy up, boys!" he yelled to the brown and black horses.

The rounded the curve and into a long road twisting around the shore. Abigail caught a glimpse of the Deserted Tower and her heart sank miserably. 

She was leaving Deserted Tower. 

And she was just as close as to leaving Fillan.

Abigail grimaced. But she had thought long of it ever since Aunt Margaret called. She was leaving Hoofburg, unknown. Nobody will know where she had gone to - maybe they would even think she had gone mad and jumped into a well. But whatever it is, Fillan didn't need to know - Abigail was sure no one would write to him about her. They won't think she is of any Fillan's concern.

Maybe she would see him again someday… and maybe she won't.

Abigail shook her head furiously. She was about to start a new life now. And if Fillan West would please stop intruding her thoughts, it would-

Abigail's eyes widened.

Derrane Frank was standing at the side, apparently walking home. Her head snapped up at the sight of Abigail in a carriage with a stranger and half-a-dozen bags in the cart and her mouth dropped open. 

Abigail looked back at her, mouth wide open as well. Ernie, who didn't realise what was taking place over his left, patted the horses' lean backs and yelled: "Giddy up, boys! That's it!" and happily went past Derrane, who watched the carriage like one dazed.

Abigail frowned helplessly. She hadn't expected this at all.

"Goodbye Derrane." She called out softly. Derrane's hand flew to her mouth. Abigail turned around and looked straight at the road and felt the crazy urge to look back at Derrane and possibly jump off the carriage to run over and hug her. 

But instead, she focused her attention on Ernie's whistling.


	6. And thou shall hope against hope.....

A/N: Yes! Another chapter completed! Thanks again for the reviews!

Gueck Thea : I like happy endings too, but they're quite boring, aren't they? Should I, or should I not do a happy ending? Maybe I should do a vote? ^_^. Anyway, enjoy this one. And um, I actually wanted to kill Fillan (man, do I kill a lot or what? : P) but then you might murder me, so… I took it into considerations! Ka ka! Have fun, ok?

Christine: Don't worry, I'm not scared by your review. In fact, I love it! Write longer reviews, ok? Yeah, I'm just making people like you get wrenched and nervous (muahahahaha!). I'm glad that you like my story ^_^. Enjoy reading this part!

And I've noticed, I've been getting a lot of hits, but only some reviewed. Come on! Even if this story stinks, you can still review and tell me about it! J

Bloomsworth was anything but pretty. It was a small town, filled with topping buildings and cars and machines here and there and strutting feet walking along the pavement. Abigail had never been there - Aunt Margaret had never thought of inviting her over before - and the whole surrounding rather took her by surprise. 

No trees! was Abigail's first thought. Not even a speck of grass! How on earth could anyone survive in such a horrible place like this? And no _lakes_!

"A 'onderful place, don't yeh think, Abigail?" said Ernie happily.

Abigail certainly didn't think so, but she kept quiet and stared as they went past several curious town children who had scrambled out to take a look at the carriage and the horses. 

"All the young men gone," Ernie said, with a sudden bitter drop in his tone as he glared at one particular young boy who slapped the horses' back. "All these wars-" he shook his head violently. "They never learn. Ain't never gonna learn. If I ain't as old as I am, I would 'ave gone straight to those stupid Germans and show 'em a piece of my mind!" He lifted a clenched hand in the air to show he meant what he said, and Abigail looked on amusingly.

"Your Aunt Margaret would just die if Mark went." continued Ernie. "Don't yeh remember Mark?"

"I remember him." Abigail said curtly at the mention of her cousin's name. "Don't know _how _I will forget the time he put a lizard in my dress."

"Aah, that," chuckled Ernie delightfully. "How I remember how yeh looked! Yeh were just a seven-year-old, weren't yeh? Jumping and yelling away all over your lawn! Why, I would not have thought that boy was up to anything! My, I sure had fun watching yeh!"

"I'm sure you did." Abigail frowned. 

"But they have grown up, I tell yeh." Ernie pointed a finger at Abigail. "That Mark ain't the same one yeh saw seven years ago. And Deborah has ta be the sweetest girl I 'ave ever seen. You ain't seen many good-looking brunettes nowadays."

Abigail stiffened. "Oh?"

Ernie nodded, oblivious to the offensive statement he had just made. "Yea, only fifteen, that little thing. How old are yeh, Abigail? Going seventeen? My, time does fly, doesn't it?"

"It does."

"Poor Deborah. Had been looking forward to 'aving beaux for years, and now there ain't any! All has gone to war! And of course, all the young fries here ain't good enough for her. Your Aunt Margaret would want Deborah to marry someone older."

"Then she can marry my grandfather."

"Ah, sarcastic, ain't yeh?" Ernie chuckled even more, as if Abigail Rogers amused him. "Ah well, here we are! The Mansion!"

Abigail looked as they came upon a big mansion on an absurdly small piece of land. It wasn't any better than the place that they had passed. The only thing that Abigail found attractive was the fake pond on the right of the long cement walks. There were quite a number of fishes in it, but they fled away at the sight of Abigail, who then solemnly retired to the fact that even the fishes didn't welcome her here.

"Abigail Rogers!" Aunt Margaret came puffing out as Abigail hopped down from the carriage and tripped over a luggage Ernie had lowered from the cart. "Abigail Rogers! Abigail Rogers!" Aunt Margaret cried on before pulling Abigail into a hug and smothering her with kisses. 

A young girl walked out after Aunt Margaret, walking with an air of a queen and peering at Abigail with her sea-blue eyes, and flashing her pearly white teeth at her. She was followed by a tall, prim young man who smiled too. Abigail felt her cheeks turn red. The first impression her cousins got of her was her getting squashed by their own mother! 

Aunt Margaret released her few minutes too late and Abigail said - going sheepishly crimson - "Hello Aunt Margaret, Deborah, Mark. It's a pleasure to be here."

"Hello." They answered back. 

"You must be tired," said Aunt Margaret as she dragged Abigail into a spacious room where a fire cackled and lighted the place with it's fiery light. "We shall have dinner now. You must be hungry, aren't you, Abigail dear?"

"Oh, no, not-"

"Well, of course you are!" Aunt Margaret continued as if Abigail hadn't said a thing. "We have been waiting for you for goodness knows how long! My poor darlings here-" she pointed to Mark and Deborah, who walked lightly behind them "- are positively starving! Ah! The table is set. Do you know, Abigail, that your father built that fireplace for me ten years ago?"

"No, I d-"

"It's splendid, isn't it? It's a shame he isn't here anymore to make more. Now, sit down! Sit down! Your seat is there, Abigail, right across me for I want to talk to you." Aunt Margaret pushed the dazed Abigail into her seat. "Now, we shall begin. Ah ah! Say your prayers first, darlings! Do you read prayers before dinners, Abigail dear?"

"Sometimes, if-"

"I should have known. Arthur, that father of yours, wasn't much of a church member, was he? Well, I would not expect you to know any hymn, so please, after me, Abigail dear."

"But I _do_ know my prayers, Aunt Margaret!" cried Abigail in vain - Aunt Margaret had already started muttering her prayers. "And so did my father!" 

"Now that the prayers are over with," said Aunt Margaret lightly when she finished. "We shall tuck in! There, Abigail, I have prepared you your favourite dish, spaghetti!"

"But I _hate _spaghetti."

"Then you _must_ like it!" the twinkle in Aunt Margaret's eyes disappeared, and Abigail recalled why she dreaded Aunt Margaret in the first place. The very stern gaze of Aunt Margaret would send devils running for cover. "And please keep your mouth tightly shut, Abigail Rogers. You have been interrupting me non stop!"

Abigail's mouth dropped open. She had barely said more than twenty words ever since she arrived and already she is accused of interrupting non-stop? She saw Deborah looking at her in pity and frowned deeply. She didn't want Deborah feeling sorry for her. She already felt like a beggar, standing next to Deborah with her silk dress that brought out the colour of her eyes - she certainly didn't need anything else to feel even worse.

Deborah, indeed, was just as pretty as Ernie had boasted her to be. Creamy white skin, black curls falling in waves over her shoulder and petite blue eyes peeking out from under her bushy eyebrows, she could possibly pass for a misplaced angel. Abigail, who had always been proud of her looks although there wasn't much to be proud of, felt timid and self-conscious.

Mark, as Ernie had earlier stated, did change a lot. The last time Abigail saw him, which was eight years ago, he was a podgy, prim and supposedly intelligent boy, for people seemed to think that any townspeople were clever. Now, he is tall, solid and pleasant-faced, primmer and more proper than ever, with his hair neatly tucked behind his eyes and his clothes finely ironed and starched. 

Abigail ate quickly. If she had to eat spaghetti for as long as she was under Aunt Margaret's roof, she might as well get it over with. But alas! In her anguish to do so, she toppled her pumpkin juice glass and it spilled all over her dress. Abigail stared in dismay - her dress! How could she be so clumsy? What would Aunt Margaret think? What would she _say_?

Aunt Margaret, at first, looked as if she was about to erupt. Such a manner at the dinner table! Spilling pumpkin juice indeed! But when she looked at Abigail's wide frightened eyes, she hesitated and calmed herself down with the thought that perhaps Abigail Rogers hadn't much training, with parents like hers. Martha Rogers was too much of a fool to be of any use to Abigail. Aunt Margaret never understood how Arthur could have been attracted to Martha. Well, he was a fool too.

Nevertheless, Aunt Margaret didn't say a word, and somehow Abigail felt it was worse than if Aunt Margaret had screamed at her or slapped her across the face. She will always be haunted by the fact that Aunt Margaret might be holding a grudge against her for it!

The dinner ended and Aunt Margaret led Abigail to her room in silence. Maids were hurrying here and there, fixing every crook and cranny of the room - the carpet was furiously scrubbed and cleaned, the windows dust-less to the very last, the rich violet curtain hanging over a big glass window washed and scented and the bed aired and warmed. There wasn't any fireplace though.

"Well, I certainly hope you like this room, Abigail dear," Aunt Margaret said suddenly, her tone once again filled with cheerfulness. Abigail breathed in relief. "This used to be Deborah's room, but I have moved her to the room at the end of the corridor. Now, please feel as if you are a part of my family. What is it, Diana?" A maid had just nudged Aunt Margaret in the arm. "You are finished? Very well. Goodnight, Abigail dear."

Aunt Margaret and the maids trooped out, and Abigail stared at her new room in its eerie emptiness. It was big - bigger than her room and Patrick's room combined back in Lunar Cottage. But Abigail never had anything for size. She savoured friendliness, and this room had none for her.

As she settled herself in the big, warm bed, a scary thought dawned on her that perhaps she, Abigail Rogers, had made the biggest mistake in her life.

*

If Aunt Margaret wanted Abigail to feel as if she was part of the family, she surely hadn't bothered to do anything about it. It was as if she had forgotten all about her niece, and always jumped in shock when Abigail came in view.

Deborah and Mark weren't any help at all. They talked to Abigail politely - so politely that Abigail felt as if she was their grandmother instead. There was always a business-like tone in them that it was practically impossible for Abigail to feel 'part of the family'.

The days were getting harder to bear, for Abigail had absolutely nothing to do. She had tried to help the maids in the kitchen, but there were enough of them already, and they didn't exactly want a girl who went around spilling pumpkin juice for company. She had also tried to make friends with the family's Labrador dog, Spot. But Spot had terrified Abigail to the very core of her soul when he barked and attempted to chase Abigail around the house. She hated him now, and always swerved out of his way when he came bounding into the house with Mark after his evening walk. The fishes, meanwhile, still swam furiously away when Abigail came close to the pond.

The only thing that comforted Abigail was the big old oak tree at the back of The Mansion. It, unlike the others, accepted Abigail, and she spent the dull early August days talking to the tree. Sometimes it answered Abigail with the rustling of its leaves, sometimes it stayed silent, but nevertheless, Abigail found it satisfying. She only wanted a listener, and the Oak tree was more than happy to do so.

But Aunt Margaret soon caught her and stared wide-eyed with horror. Her niece talking to the trees! Could anything be more _ridiculous_? 

"But I _always_ talk to trees in Hoofburg, Aunt Margaret," Abigail had told her. 

"Well, I must say!" Aunt Margaret had shaken her head disapprovingly. "It is about time you get rid of that foolish habit! Haven't you anything better to do, Abigail dear? Why, I _must _enrol you in that Red Cross thing that Deborah and the girls are making." 

And so, the very next day, Abigail found herself sitting in the midst of other young girls from all over Bloomsworth right in The Mansion's hall. No one had taken notice of her yet, and Abigail felt it was truly humiliating and she shivered in fear that the girls had mistaken her for a maid, for she certainly wasn't dressed in her best.

She cut layers and layers of cotton for bandages furiously, and watched in envy as other girls talked and giggled gaily. It had been so long since she had last talked or laughed as cheerfully, and Abigail found herself missing Hoofburg and her dear old friends more terribly than ever. Suppose her friends still remembered her? Suppose they were still thinking of her? Suppose she could run away from The Mansion and go back to where she belonged?

But no. It was too late now. She had made her decision, and be it or be it not a mistake, she would go through it. Her pride wouldn't allow her to go back to Hoofburg. Besides, the people might think she is dead, and her return would just cause chaos. Unless of course, Derrane had told them what had actually happened….

"Hullo there!" Abigail's head snapped up and her eyes rested on a chubby girl with red curls smiling down on her. "You must be Deborah Mist's cousin, ain't you?"

Abigail smiled back. "Why, yes."

Another girl, younger than the previous one with the same red curls and twinkling green eyes, came skipping over and beamed at Abigail. "Deborah was just tellin' us 'bout you yesterday when she said you were goin' ta join. How is it with your father and mother and brother bein' dead? I have been dyin' ta ask you that."

"Oh, hush Penny!" said the first girl as she settled beside Abigail with a pair of big scissors. She smiled apologetically at Abigail. "So sorry. Penny here ain't as sensitive as I am. She didn't mean any harm."

"Oh, it's alright," Abigail smiled again, but more forcefully this time. No one had ever dared to ask her openly about her family's death, except Aunt Margaret, and it was kind of bittersweet now that it has been asked. "I'm alright about it."

"Alright about what?" Penny asked again, sitting down opposite Abigail with interested eyes. "About my previous question, or about the death?"

"Penny!" the first girl gasped.

"Oh, be a sport, Hannah," Penny groaned. "I just wanna know."

"Both," Abigail answered. "Your question _and_ the death."

Penny nodded, oblivious to the glare Hannah was bestowing upon her. "Ah, you must be strong. Like your aunt, I suppose - Mrs. Mist. I heard she didn't shed a single tear when Mr. Mist died. But of course, people used to say that Mrs. Mist only married Mr. Mist for his money."

"No," Abigail frowned. "Aunt Margaret isn't like that."

Penny raised an eyebrow and was about to say something when Hannah quickly interrupted. 'Well, glad that you are all right. I've heard all sorts of story about girls killing themselves because of the war." Hannah shuddered. "It's terrifying!"

"Girls getting killed _over_ the war is even more terrifying." Abigail said solemnly, flinching slightly when she accidentally pressed the scissors over her finger. "At least the girls who killed themselves had asked for it. The girls who suffer over there in France and Belgium didn't."

"Goodness me!" Hannah laughed. "You do say the strangest things, don't you? But do not you worry; we Stewarts are used to strange things. Our grandmother once chased her cat over rooftops. It was a wonder she didn't fall and die."

"Oh," Abigail nodded, an amused expression on her face as she pictured a ninety-year-old nanny with rollers in her white hair running and jumping over The Mansion's high rooftop, screaming away at a cat. "That _is _strange."

At that moment, Spot came in and caused a wind of excitement as each girl went over to pat him; "Oh, Deborah! He's just adorable!" "My, my! What a darling thing!". Abigail edged away, her wide eyes never leaving Spot. So - he barked at her but was friendly to other people, eh? Very well.

Suddenly, Spot turned his eyes on Abigail and growled deeply. Nobody seemed to have noticed, except Abigail herself who turned very green and dropped her scissors. What was Spot up to? What was he going to do to her? Goodness! He's coming!

Spot was streaking across the hall room, barking madly amid shrieks from terrified girls at his sudden behaviour. Abigail screamed. Spot was heading for her! He was going to kill her! Eat her! Crush her! Someone was yelling for help - "Mark! Mark! Good grief, _where_ is he when I need him?" - was it Deborah? It didn't matter. All Abigail could see was the gleaming yellow eyes of Spot rushing nearer and nearer to her. 

Penny and Hannah were screaming. Everyone was screaming. _She _was screaming. Abigail's brain was whizzing away like crazy - then it stopped. She collapsed to the floor.

*

Abigail opened her eyes with much effort and stared at her surroundings with wide, frightened eyes. There was a big mantelpiece at her right, and a big door on her left side. Where on earth could she be?

Suddenly overcome by fear, Abigail shot up into a sitting position and found herself looking into Mark's startled face. He was sitting at the foot of the couch Abigail was lying on in a very odd position, for he had probably jumped slightly when Abigail struck up like that.

"Good Scott, Mark!" Abigail said shakily. She wiped the sweat on her forehead and sighed in relief. "You scared me!"

"I was about to say the same to you." 

"Where am I?" Abigail asked, looking around again. She was probably somewhere in The Mansion, but where? This is certainly not her room.

"Mother's bedroom," Mark replied nonchalantly. "You scared the wits out of her when you collapsed to the floor like that. She and Deborah went to get some medicine for you. But I see that you are alright now."

"Yes," Abigail said curtly. Alright? She will _never_ be alright as long as that darned Spot was alive!

"That dog of mine scared you, didn't he?"

"Obviously."

Mark nodded, smiling slightly. "You know, Spot only chases bad people. People who do something wrong to my family. Burglars and thieves…"

Abigail turned red in anger. "Are you saying that I am bad? Well, for your information, I did _not _steal anything from you, nor will I _ever_ want to. There is _nothing _worthy of stealing here anyway, and if you people think that-"

"No need to go there, Abigail." Mark shrugged, running a clean hand through his neat black locks. "I was only _telling_, not _suggesting_. Now please don't glare at me like that and get some sleep. You have had a shock and you need all the rest you can get."

"I don't see how I can get some 'rest' when I have just been cruelly accused of stealing." Abigail said bitterly. "But nevertheless, you can go and leave me alone."

Mark left with a teasing side-glance, and Abigail glared at him through the walls. How dare he! She had been there for barely three weeks and already! As _if _she would want to steal anything, anyway!

After spending an hour in remorse and choking herself with angry tears, Abigail felt she was well enough to go out. She _had _to go out. She _had_ to go see the Oak tree, and tell it all about her stupid cousin and his stupid dog. Now, suppose Spot is still around?

Abigail crept down the staircase, and headed for the main door so carefully that one would think she was walking on dynamites and so watchfully as if she expected Spot to come bounding out any second.

The set was clear. It was almost possible to believe that Spot was dead, for there wasn't anything that revealed of his whereabouts. But as soon as Abigail stepped a foot out into the sunshine, she heard loud barking.

Undoubtedly, Spot was rushing towards her from across the small lawn. Abigail wondered exasperatedly what Spot had against her and argued with herself whether to run or to not run. She wanted to run - _badly_ - to go up to her room and stay there for the rest of her life. But she was also angry. She wanted to show that dog that she wasn't afraid of him - although she clearly _was_! 

Spot was coming closer now. Abigail continuously repeated encouraging words to herself as she stood rooted at the spot: Do not faint, Abigail. Stay put. Teach that dog a lesson he and his master will remember and bring to their graves. Stay put! Yes, yes, he looks scary, but stay put!

But at that very moment, Mark came rushing out of The Mansion and seized Spot by the neck. Spot struggled, but soon reconciled and walked grumpily away. Mark glared at Abigail. "Either you're a born troublemaker or just plain stupid!" he screamed. "Can't you stay at one place without disturbing me?"

"Disturb you?!" Abigail shrieked, eyes flashing furiously. "I didn't ask you to come down here and save me! Can't I even take a brief walk without _you_ and _your dog_ disturbing _me_?"

"Abigail Rogers! Mark Mist!" boomed Aunt Margaret's voice from the kitchen. "What is going on here? I demand you explain to me now!" Her head poked out from the kitchen window. "And it better be good!"

*

Abigail was sent to bed without supper for 'screaming at my darling Mark and embarrassing me', as Aunt Margaret put it - she hadn't seen Mark screaming at Abigail first.

Feeling ashamed and angry that a nearly-seventeen-year-old like her was still punished like a baby, Abigail went to her room grimly and wept bitter tears for half-an-hour. The next few hours was spent imagining that she was queen and had all the powers to punish Aunt Margaret and Mark any way she liked.

But the very next day, at early dawn, Mark knocked on her bedroom door and apologised profusely until Abigail got sick of it. "I feel guilty for not being punished along," he said honestly. "If I _had _been punished too, then it would be fair and I wouldn't have to apologise. But never mind."

Abigail accepted his apology, though not as graciously as he had hoped. And from that point onwards, Abigail noticed that Mark was more friendlier and talkative, although he always talked about war, and Abigail hadn't the slightest interest to it.

"Do you know how the war started, Abigail?" he asked one day, looking up from the papers he was reading at the breakfast table. 

"No," Abigail answered as she sliced tomato after tomato into tiny pieces. Aunt Margaret always made Abigail cut vegetables up every Saturday, and although it was such a boring job in Abigail's opinion, she was well contented. "And I _don't_ want to know."

"It started when someone called Archduke…." And so on did Mark babble about wars to Abigail, despite her protests, as if he liked showing off his knowledge. That was the annoying part, but other than that, Mark could pass for a gentleman.

Abigail caught him marking a calendar that was stuck on the kitchen cupboard one day. "Why are you marking the days for?" she asked curiously.

"So I would know exactly how many days it is to my birthday," he said, and then pulled on a fake smirk. "You know, can't wait to get gifts."

Abigail frowned. "You're waiting for your 18th birthday so you can sign up, that's why." 

Mark stared at her, and then nodded gravely. "How did you know?"

"I've seen that look you have on your face before," Abigail said quietly. "And besides, you are a terrible liar."

"You saw this look I have on my face on your father and Patrick's? When they wanted to go?" Mark asked, pushing the lid onto the tip of his pen. 

"No," Abigail's tone was strangely distant. "It was someone else."

Mark nodded. He wanted to prod, but felt it was best not to. Abigail looked as if she was about to burst crying. "Well," he said lightly. "I don't know if Mother and Deborah will let me. They were very hard about it when I mentioned it years ago, when the war first started. Anyhow, I just hope they will, or I will be the laughing stock of the boys and be labelled a coward."

*

On one windy and cold evening, there was a Red Cross meeting in the Raven's house. Willa Raven was so busy serving drink and cakes for everyone that she barely ate anything at all, and her work lay unattended over the couch. Meanwhile, the other girls busied themselves with their cotton-cutting work and talked fast and excitedly about the latest news that their army had just been 'battered and broken' as the newspapers reported.

"Battered and broken!" Hannah said loudly. "If our army had _that_ fate, I wouldn't want to think of the fate of other armies!"

"Why?" Abigail asked, bewildered. "How did they get battered?"

"Goodness," Hannah frowned. "Don't you ever read the papers, Abigail?"

Abigail snorted. "No, I don't." she answered. "Newspapers never have anything good in them. I never understood why people buy them when it only brings them bad news."

"But you get to find out if anyone you know had died or not."

"That is exactly what I mean." 

Penny and Hannah looked at each other, but decided to drop the subject. "So, Abigail," Penny peered at Abigail from the corner of her eyes. "There have been airs that Mark Mist is courting you."

Abigail dropped her scissors in shock. She stared at Penny with big eyes. "That's ridiculous. We're just cousins. Besides, I'm eng- I mean, that's just ridiculous!"

"I don't see what's so ridiculous," Hannah spoke solemnly, trimming the edges of the cotton. "I have seen you two together, and my, he looks besotted."

"That's ridiculous." Abigail repeated. "It won't happen."

"Is that so? Why? Do you have someone else?"

"That's just ridiculous." Abigail said again, as if in a trance.

Hannah and Penny raised their eyebrows at each other.

*

"Three more weeks." Mark hissed on a cold afternoon, as the wind swept pieces of snow through the open window into The Mansion. He marked the calendar and looked at it in satisfaction.

Abigail nodded quietly. She stared at the bare Oak tree in the lawn, covered fully with heavy layers of snow and sighed. It was winter, and it was cold, although Abigail was finely wrapped in layers of clothes and was sitting right next to the fireplace. She wondered how it was like in the battlefield. Men must be dying out of pneumonia, out of frostbite…. Surely they hadn't enough clothing to cover themselves. And how, how, HOW is Fillan right now?

Abigail thought of Fillan every once in a while, sometimes avoiding it because it made her feel queasy. But at times like this, when the wind was harsh, and the trees were bare, and the temperature was unbearable, she found it hard to concentrate on anything else. Perhaps Fillan was already dead?

"Abigail?" 

Abigail snapped back to earth and found Mark looking at her with an odd expression. She had seen Mark give her looks like that before, but it wasn't until Penny and Hannah had mentioned something about courting that Abigail took it seriously. "Yes?"

"Nothing," Mark muttered uncertainly. "You were… never mind."

Abigail nodded again, although she herself didn't know what she was nodding for. She turned back to look at the Oak tree when Mark spoke up once again. "Abigail, can I ask you a question?"

"You've just asked one." Abigail said lightly, but her heart was turning cold. 

Mark looked bewildered, but laughed just as lightly. Then he stopped and looked serious again, just as if he was going for battle. "Abigail," he whispered. Abigail turned blue. "Will you marry me when I get back?"

He was in earnest. Abigail struggled to control herself. She didn't know what to say. Or what to do either. "Mark - I … I-" she had to do it. She must say it. "I can't."

"Why can't you?" Mark's face changed, but his tone was still the same. 

Abigail fought her tears back. She can't blubber in front of Mark at such a time like this! "I- I just can't….. Don't look at me like that, Mark. Please."

Mark tried to change his expression, only to make it worse. His eyes were darker than it had ever been, and his upper lip was stiff. "You- don't- love me?"

Abigail looked guiltily at him. "I do, but not in the way that you want me to….." she hastily wiped a tear. Heavens! What a crybaby she was! "I'm sorry." 

"Is there - someone else?"

Oh! Won't Mark stop asking questions? He was torturing her! "Yes," Abigail said forcefully. "There is."

"Who?"

Abigail stood up. "I have to go." And she fled away.

*

"Abigail dear," Aunt Margaret walked into Abigail's room triumphantly and Abigail frantically rushed to the basin to wash her face and hide her swollen eyes. "We have to talk."

Abigail dabbed her eyes again and made sure there was nothing to give away the fact that she had been crying for ages. "Yes, of course, Aunt Margaret." What could Aunt Margaret possibly want to talk about? Surely she couldn't have found out about Mark's proposal that fast!

Aunt Margaret pulled Abigail beside her and looked so closely at Abigail that she felt as if she was under a magnifying glass. "Abigail, dear," Aunt Margaret started, smiling. "I do not know if you have noticed this, but my darling Mark is attracted to you."

Abigail suppressed a scream. 

"Of course, he was too shy to say so to you," Aunt Margaret's eyes twinkled. "And I say to myself: How long will that boy of mine keep silent like that? So, I have finally decided that I will tell you for him. Of course, he doesn't know that I'm doing him a favour," Aunt Margaret chuckled.

"Oh." Abigail said. So Aunt Margaret didn't know what has happened.

"Well?"

"Yes?"

"What do you say, Abigail?" Aunt Margaret said, almost impatiently. "Will you marry him?"

Abigail took a deep breath. "No, Aunt Margaret. I won't."

Aunt Margaret, obviously expecting a different answer, shrieked in shock. "You won't!" she yelled. "You dare refuse my son! What excuses have you got, Miss Rogers?" she was absolutely erupting like a volcano now.

"I don't love him."

Aunt Margaret shrieked again. "Well, well!" she stood up and glared at Abigail through that frightening glare of hers. Abigail flinched. "I have saved you from a lifetime of suffering in that Hoofburg place, and this is how you pay me? Very well!" Aunt Margaret rushed for the door, muttering 'Very well' every three seconds.

Somehow, Abigail had a feeling it wasn't 'very well'. She looked about her, and hot tears that she had been holding back poured out mercilessly. Why did it have to go this way? Whatever did she do to that made Mark think she cared for him? Well, she _did_ care for him, but _love_ him! _That_ was beyond question!

She crept miserably under her quilt and awaited for the dawn to come. Hopefully, everything will be all right by then.

*

Things didn't go 'all right' the next day, and nor did it go 'all right' for the next two weeks. Aunt Margaret and Deborah seemed to be campaigning against her - oh, she would always remember the look Aunt Margaret gave her when she went down to breakfast! - and Mark avoided her by all costs. 

It was lonely, and Abigail spent her time crying and crying, and even the thought of stopping was ridiculous. She cried so much that she was beginning to like it. 

But the bitterest tears of all bitter tears didn't come until the next Saturday, when all of them were seated having breakfast. Aunt Margaret and Deborah were eating silently and Abigail sat at her usual place, cutting potatoes.

It was Mark who gave the news. He was reading the paper, a bit longer than usual when he nonchalantly said: "A few of our soldiers are reported to be missing - captured by the Germans, no doubt. Let's see….. Dean Furrow, Liam Miller, George Hay - and Fillan West."

Abigail gasped. The knife she was holding sunk deeper into the potato and into her finger. Blood gushed out, but Abigail's thoughts were far from that. 

"Abigail!" Aunt Margaret screeched. "Go clean that finger of yours! We do not want to have blood all over our potatoes!" Deborah looked disgusted and Mark stared at Abigail as if he was seeing her for the first time.

Abigail meekly cleaned her finger, although it was almost impossible for her hands couldn't stop shaking. Fillan - missing? Captured by the Germans? Abigail felt it was even worse than if he was dead.

A mistake, Abigail thought frantically. Just a mistake. Her Fillan couldn't be missing. He just couldn't!

As soon as breakfast was over and the table cleared and Aunt Margaret gone, Abigail snatched the paper lying recklessly on the chair. She scanned the entire paper, and her heart stopped beating as she stopped at the article Mark had mentioned.

'Unknown Whereabouts. Three soldier and a Lieutenant were discovered missing, being Dean Furrow, Liam Miller, Lieutenant George Hay and Lieutenant Fillan West. Searches have been made and it has been concluded that the Germans could possibly have captured them. We await further reports from the battlefield.'

Abigail sank into a chair. Her brows were joined together, her cheeks were flaming red and her eyes bore tears waiting to escape. It can't be… it just can't be!

"Fillan West. It's him, isn't it?"

Abigail's head snapped up, tears and all. Mark was standing at the other end of the table, looking at her with that look again. Abigail bit her lower lip. She nodded and covered her face with her hands. She wanted to cry now. She didn't care that Mark was there to see her howl. Her courage and endurance had failed her, and she wanted to wail and blubber and cry till the end of her life.

The one thing she had been living for was gone.

She wanted to be gone too.

Hope was lost, perhaps never to return. 

A/N: hope you liked that. J Anyway, someone has been telling me that my chapters are far too long. I like them long, but if you think it's too much (like, up to the stage where your eyes hurt for staring at the screen for too long!!! :P) tell me okay? And I'll do something about it. Ciao!


	7. A Pinch of Salt

A/N: Just to let you know, I wrote this chapter when I should have been studying - so you'd better appreciate my sacrifice! L J/k. I'd go crazy if I don't write anyway. This is the seventh chapter - hope you've been enjoying it so far (cuz I have!).

Gueck Thea: What made you change your name? But never mind, I liked the previous one better, so don't mind if I call you by that, ok? ^_^. Thank you for following the story - trust me, I'd just kiss you if I could : P. Who do you like better, Mark or Fillan?

Christine: Yeah, somehow I can sense that you're fanatic about Derrane and Abigail getting together. But don't you think Abigail's ego wouldn't allow that? ^_^. I still don't know if Fillan should die or not. I mean, if he died, it would make the story much for _dramatic_, wouldn't it? But then again, I don't want him to die either ^_^. Anyway, just enjoy this chapter, ok?

Mark announced his departure for war the very next day, and Aunt Margaret fainted, slumping to the floor with a soft crash, making them think - for the first few minutes - that she was dead. Deborah howled and bowled and begged and stalked Mark for the rest of the day, and was annoyed that Abigail Rogers wasn't making any effort to prevent his going.

Of course, she thought haughtily, glaring at Abigail who sat on the couch transfixed as usual - she seemed caught in a strange trance these past few days. That idiot of a woman didn't care for anything but herself. Refusing Mark, indeed, when Mother had kindly asked her!

Tension rose up to its very peak. Abigail, flat and empty and lacking her soul, worked herself what seemed to be some kind of an unnoticeable suicide. In a day, twice she washed the curtains, three times she scrubbed the floor, and twice she cut vegetables two times the amount than what was needed. It wasn't nice - the maids were getting angry with her and accused her of stealing their jobs - but it helped.

Aunt Margaret, recovering from her faint, was extremely snappish. She spent her time in the bedroom, and goodness knows what goes on in there. Sometimes, in the cold winter, Abigail would hear cries and thunderous pacing from her room, and realised for once, that Aunt Margaret was human after all. But human or not, Aunt Margaret's reception to her didn't alter. She highly believed that Mark was going to war because of that frivolous Abigail - heartlessly breaking his heart like that! Now look what her poor darling took to his head!

Deborah wasn't any friendlier. She too, believed what Aunt Margaret believed, and it seemed as if the more she saw Abigail, the more she hated her. It was shocking that Abigail could still work and work as if _nothing_ is happening! _Really_, Deborah thought Abigail would have had more tact! Why, _she_ _couldn't_ possibly work! _She_ would cry and cry and _cry_ till Providence stops her!

But Mark, knowing the truth behind Abigail's blank face, looked upon her with respect, admiration… and perhaps, a slight bit of resentment. So, there was another. And a lieutenant at that. If he, Mark Mist, had been a lieutenant, would Abigail have answered differently? 

No news about Lieutenant Fillan West came that week and neither did it the following week - Abigail read the papers often now. She worked harder. On one silent night, Abigail had a dream. She dreamed she was standing in the middle of nowhere in particular, and there was a pole faraway. The pole exploded, and sent bits flying into the air. One huge bit landed near her and rolled quietly to her feet. Abigail looked down and froze at the sight of it - a bleeding head with familiar dark hair and enchanting green eyes looked back at her. Abigail screamed in her dream, and she screamed in her wake. Aunt Margaret came, stomping like a big version of Spot and screamed at Abigail from the hallway - "You foolish girl! _What_ do you think you're doing, screaming in the middle of the night like that?!"

Ever since she saw Fillan's head dripping with blood looking at her with those vivid eyes in her dream, Abigail didn't dare go to sleep. She didn't have second sight - she was sure of _that_, but still, she wasn't going to take chances. And so, she spent the dull and quiet hours of moonlight on her knees, praying hard and furiously - for there were times when she found it hard to keep faith, even on the Almighty. 

Abigail didn't kill herself. Neither did she jump from a cliff - there wasn't one in Bloomsworth, anyway - and neither did she burn The Mansion. But she died the day news of Fillan's disappearance came, and now it is as if she is merely existing. 

It would break Derrane Frank's heart if she had been there to see the conditions of Abigail Rogers, whose soul was gone, along with its mirth and laughter. 

*

The day of Mark's departure came, after sickening days of much pampering by Aunt Margaret and Deborah. They, including Abigail who came out of respect to the family more than anything else, were in the Bloomsworth train station at early dawn. Abigail, who had once been so sick of train stations that she was sure she would lose her top deck if she was forced to go one more time, felt particularly nothing as she stepped into the platform with Aunt Margaret and Deborah weeping shamelessly beside her and Mark, walking with a grave air but a face fixed with determination. 

The station was fairly empty, except for a redheaded family, none in khaki. They looked at Mark curiously, and at the shaken bodies of Aunt Margaret and Deborah up to the stony Abigail, who stood as still as a castle's guard at one side. Their gaze somehow made Aunt Margaret and Deborah even weepier and Abigail even stonier. 

"I woul' never 'ave dreamed of 'is 'appening (sob!)!" Aunt Margaret said between choked sobs. "My Ma'k! My 'arlin' Ma'k!" 

Abigail scowled. For heaven's sake, she screamed at Aunt Margaret quietly, have some courage, woman! _I _have lost my fiancé, and your son has _barely _stepped on the train!

Mark looked embarrassed, and he ushered Aunt Margaret to a seat at the end of the platform, for Aunt Margaret looked as if she was about to faint again. Deborah followed suit, crying worse than a baby, and Abigail fought not to look disgusted. Deborah was pretty, Abigail agreed, but if that girl hadn't a speck of bravery in her, then Abigail didn't see anything in Deborah worth seeing!

Apparently, Mark seemed to think so too. With one look of utter helplessness at his family seated like a crumpled mess on the seat, he walked back to Abigail. "Take care of them, will you?" he spoke formally, the business-like tone which he had used in the early days of Abigail's arrival returning. "Mother wasn't this bad when Father died. She seems to take it harder than she should."

Abigail nodded absently.

"Take care of yourself too," Mark said, afterthought. 

Abigail looked up, and for a fleeting moment, as she stared at the grim blue eyes of her cousin's, felt a sudden small voice in her head telling her that she had been a fool to refuse Mark Mist. After all, Fillan was as good as gone. 

But no! screamed Abigail at herself, so loudly that the small voice was taken aback and didn't reply after. She didn't love Mark, and she never could marry him. Fillan was the one, and he will always be. It wasn't confirmed of his death and until that, she would wait as patiently as her patience would allow. 

"Mark," she said suddenly, caught in a fiery passion that had been missing for so long. "Save him. Please save him and return him to me."

Mark's eyes turned dark. "Fillan West?"

"Yes."

There was hoot from the train, which was coming steadily through the railway. Mark's eyebrows perked up, Aunt Margaret and Deborah howled even louder and Abigail bit her lower lip in agitation. Mark turned to leave, but Abigail quickly grabbed him by the arm. "Promise me you will, Mark."

He hesitated, but nodded slowly at last. "I'll try." He walked again, but then abruptly turned around and walked back and looked at Abigail straight in the eye. "Abigail, do you remember the day Spot attacked you, and I accused you of stealing?"

Abigail hadn't any idea why Mark was bringing the fretful incident up, but she nodded, nevertheless. The memory was rather hard to drop. "I did _not_ steal anything, Mark. I'm sorry if you find that hard to believe b-"

"Oh, but you _did_ steal something, Abigail." Mark said solemnly. "You stole my heart."

And Abigail watched as he slid away from her and into Aunt Margaret's open arms. Soon, he was gone, the train slipped away, and Aunt Margaret fainted. Abigail helped Deborah heave Aunt Margaret's weight to where it was safe for fainting people and watched as the train vanished out of sight. 

Mark will find Fillan, Abigail told herself resolutely. Fillan would come back to her. And then everything will be cleared up and she will be back in Hoofburg. 

A small bit of Abigail's soul had returned to her, and it couldn't be anything else but that faint glimmer of hope that helped her through the next several months.

*

Mark wrote to Aunt Margaret and Deborah almost every week, but not once did he write to Abigail. But still she held on fast to her faith, and worked and prayed even harder. 

"That Abigail Rogers," Hannah Stewart once said. "She refused Mark, so what on earth is she killing herself with all those workload for?"

Abigail had gone very thin, and she was unrecognisable for the plump, glowing maiden in her early Hoofburg days. The glow in her cheeks was gone, and her gaunt face and tired eyes looked hungry and worried. She walked alarmingly like one who might drop dead any second, and she barely talked as the winter passed and spring arrived.

Aunt Margaret, like Mrs. Rogers, stopped buying newspapers from the very day that Mark went. Too much untrue and exaggerated things, she claimed. Although Abigail agreed heartily to it, it was rather devastating knowing that now she would never find out if Fillan had been found and saved. The hours got darker, the air bleaker and her faith weaker. 

"Ligh'en up, Abigail," Penny Stewart told her as she stitched an apron. "Whatever yer worryin' 'bout."

"You wouldn't say that if you were in my shoes, Penny." Abigail said solemnly.

"For Scott's sake," Penny laughed. "I won't fit into it anyways. Yer feet are too big, I'd say. I am surprised it didn't shrink along with your body, Abigail."

"I didn't _shrink_."

Hannah shook her head as she carefully untied a knot that had just gathered at the end of her string. "You didn't look at yourself in the mirror either, I'd say. I can only give you a three worded advice, Abigail Rogers, and it is: Eat up, woman!"

Abigail pursed her lips and decided to ignore Hannah. "Have you in any case, Hannah, came upon anything about the four missing soldiers being found in the papers?"

Hannah smiled. "No," she said empathetically. "That is the fifth time you asked me in three days, Abigail. What is it with the four soldiers that attracts you so much?"

"Nothing." Abigail lied. "I keep imagining how dreadful it must be for the people who are connected heart and soul to these soldiers. Aren't they doing anything to save these soldiers?"

"It ain't good to stretch your imagination, Abigail," Hannah sighed. "And I honestly don't care if they have done anything to save the missing soldiers." 

Abigail's stomach clenched. Hannah didn't care, eh?"

"Well," Penny spoke. "If you're so worried, why don't yer join the V.A.D?"

"The what?" Abigail said before she could stop herself.

"V.A.D. Some kind of a Red Cross too, I suppose. I heard my mother talkin' 'bout it," Penny flapped the parchment of cotton. "They're all over the world and some near the battlefield, so yer can just rush over say someone gets wounded."

Abigail's mouth dropped open. Be near the battlefield? In case someone gets wounded? In case _Fillan_ gets wounded? "Where do I sign up?"

"Oh, hush, Abigail," Hannah laughed. "Don't you know that V.A.D are only for those above nineteen?"

"I'm eighteen." Abigail said defensively, but she looked severely disappointed.

"Haven't you heard of the latest news?" Hannah continued. "Our line up north is barely holding on. I don't see how we can get out of this safe." 

"Providence will find a way." Abigail stated.

"I doubt that," Penny said bravely. "He hasn't made any effort, has He?."

"Penny!" Hannah wailed. 

Abigail smiled. "Sometimes, Penny," she reached out and tapped Penny's hands. "I feel it that way too."

"Abigail!" wailed Hannah again. "You two! It won't do to lose faith in the Almighty!"

"Oh, I'm not losing faith in Him, Hannah," Abigail waved a bony hand carelessly. "I just wish He would hurry up and spare us all the hurt and agony."

*

No news came. Abigail felt that it would _never_ come and that she shall be stranded in the tangle of confusion and anticipation for the rest of her lonely life. Indeed, life was getting lonelier, although Penny and Hannah dropped in occasionally to resume their mission to fatten Abigail up.

Abigail _did _put on some weight, much to the delight of the two girls, but still she looked frail and weak, as though a gust of wind would be able to blow her to the ends of the world. And Penny and Hannah kept feeding her with blueberry pies so often that Abigail felt her face was _turning_ into one! 

"Oh no," groaned Abigail on one March morning as she saw Hannah making her way across the Mansion's lawn. But this time however, there wasn't a pie in sight, and Hannah's face was as flushed as a face can be.

"Oh, Abigail!" she gasped as she waded into the kitchen, where Abigail sat cutting ladyfingers. "Something heavenly just happened to me!"

"And what could it possibly be?" Abigail asked, piling the remaining ladyfingers in her hands. She lifted them up and turned to look at Hannah, who grinned from ear to ear. "Really, Hannah, you are acting strange."

"Do you know Martin Angle?"

"That red-headed boy who talks of nothing but being a lawyer?" Abigail raised an eyebrow and started making her way across the room. "Yes. Why?"

"He proposed to me last night."

Abigail tripped over her skirt and the ladyfingers went flying all over the kitchen. "Hannah Stewart!" she gasped. "And what did you say?"

Hannah looked annoyed. "I said yes, of course."

Abigail rushed to Hannah, carelessly squashing the doomed ladyfingers on the floor and pulled her into a hug. "Oh, that is wonderful! Congratulations, my dear."

Hannah beamed. "We will be marrying next week, before Martin goes off to volunteer."

"Volunteer?!" Abigail's eyes grew wide. "Oh, Hannah! Tell me he is not leaving you after you get married!"

Hannah's face altered and turned gray. "I'm afraid it is so." she said sadly. "And I have no intention of stopping him, Abigail. He has his duty to do, he has heard his call and I will support him with all my heart."

"But having to go through months and months without your husband and worrying about him! He might die and never return! Hannah, even if you don't have the intention to stop his going, don't you think it would be better if you married _after_ the war ends?"

"Abigail," Hannah said slowly. "Don't you think it worse if I didn't marry him and he died and I never got the chance to be his wife?"

Abigail nodded miserably. How she knew! "Hannah," she whispered hoarsely. "You are such a brick."

*

"Suppose I faint in the middle of the vow?" Hannah sat upright in her kitchen and looked fearfully at Abigail and Penny and Mrs. Stewart.

"Oh, hush, Hannah!" Abigail said impatiently. "You are breaking my concentration, and next thing you know, your wedding cake would melt to pulp!" She watched the cake baking slowly in the hot oven anxiously.

Mrs. Stewart laughed. "Hannah dear, you will be just fine!" she said soothingly, and Hannah leaned back against the chair. "I am so proud of you, and Martin is such a fine young man - oh, Abigail, you can take the cake out now."

Abigail held the cake as if it was made of glass and carefully placed it on the kitchen table. She and Penny began to ice it, interrupted once in a while by Hannah, who sat idle and nervous: "Oh, what if I say the wrong thing?" "Mother, what if my veil gets stuck in my neck?" "Penny, are you sure the delicacies are all done?" "Abigail, what if I trip and land on my face?"

"Hannah!" Abigail screamed furiously as another one of Hannah's cries made her wriggle the cream a bit further than intended. "Martin won't care if you smear your face with the icing! Now please, keep quiet!"

Hannah kept silent, but still she wriggled and shivered.

The icing was completed - "Beeeeautiful!" exclaimed Mrs Stewart - and Abigail and Penny dropped into their seats in satisfaction. 

Penny grinned at Hannah, who looked as if she would explode in excitement any minute now. "I happen to know that Deborah Mist had her eyes on Martin for ages, Hannah."

"She did?" Abigail asked, astounded.

"Why would she?" Hannah frowned. "He's ages older than she is! And besides, she was perfectly fine when I told her and invited her." Hannah finished with a snort.

Penny raised her shoulders. "Dunno about that. I just knew she liked him."

"I don't care," said Hannah fierily. "_I _will be his wife, not Deborah Mist!"

"I don't think Deborah has anything for Martin," Abigail said. "She never showed any signs of it." But nevertheless, when Abigail arrived at The Mansion and walked wearily back to her room, she heard Deborah crying and in front of her bedroom door, lay the invitation card, torn to pieces.

*

"I cannot believe that I am already Mrs. Angle!" Hannah, or rather Mrs. Angle, breathed out, her face flushed and her eyes bright. 

"Congratulations again, Hannah," Abigail grinned as she took the wet bouquet of flowers Hannah held out to her. It had rained furiously, but even the bad conditions of the weather couldn't flatten down Martin and Hannah's high spirit. "Honestly, just seeing you and Martin makes me believe in love again."

Hannah laughed gaily. "Oh, and you mean to tell me that you didn't believe in it before this?"

"Oh, I _did _believe in it," Abigail said slowly. "But I lost faith in it some time ago."

"Pore girl," Penny purred, linking her arms around her ecstatic sister. "Love will find a way into yer life, dearie. Now, Hannah, if ya stand here any longer, I trust Martin will leave ya behind. He's already waiting impatiently by the carriage."

"Oh!" Hannah cried. A look of pure nervousness exploded on her face. "How can I thank you, Penny? Abigail? This has been the happiest day of my life! And to think that I have to leave you sweet girls now!"

"Stop blubbering, Hannah!" Penny crossed her arms. "Honestly! As if yer going forever! Now, carry on!" And the two girls left, with Hannah sobbing in happiness and Penny looking frustrated at her sister's babyish antics, leaving Abigail standing alone at the front porch. 

Martin lifted Hannah into the carriage - he got in himself - the horses whined as Martin slapped their backs - the carriage surged forward - Hannah was waving furiously, tears pouring down her cheeks like the previous rain - they rounded the curve - they were gone.

There, Abigail thought satisfactorily as she walked back to The Mansion. It was a nice change to have a friend of hers going to a happily married life instead of the wet, dark trenches, for Abigail felt there would never be an end to _that_.

The Mansion was silent when Abigail arrived. But of course, Aunt Margaret was out doing the weekly shopping and Deborah… 

Abigail frowned slightly. Deborah wasn't at the wedding ceremony, and in fact, Abigail hadn't seen her at all since last night, when she had heard her cry bitterly throughout the night. It was true, after all, that Deborah _did_ like Martin, _did_ want him. She was not be blamed, of course, if she had decided not to attend - that was easily understandable. But the eerie silence of the house….

If Abigail had thought the silence in The Mansion was eerie, than it was nothing compared to the sounds she heard when she entered through the front door. Spot was crouched in front of her, teeth barred and eyes twinkling menacingly. He barked.

Abigail groaned. Spot had never bothered with her ever since the day he attacked her, why now? "Go away, Spot."

Spot barked louder. Abigail felt her blood draining away from her face. "Go away!" she snapped. "Leave me alone, you bad dog! Haven't you got anything better to do?"

As if in response, Spot stood up and lunged for the ends of Abigail's skirt. Abigail screamed and tried to kick Spot away, but he held on fast and strong. "Good heavens!" Abigail yelled. "Your dinner is in the kitchen! Spot, have you gone _mad_? I haven't been stealing anything!"

Spot tugged her skirt, and Abigail tumbled forward, screaming frantically. 

"Abigail Rogers!" Aunt Margaret came barging in through the open door, decked with bags of vegetables and smelling of dead fishes. "_What_ is the meaning of this?" She slammed the door shut and glared at Abigail.

"It's Spot," Abigail gasped bitterly, tugging back her skirt. "He seemed to have caught on the habit of eating skirts."

Aunt Margaret turned her glare to Spot, who somehow managed to ignore it and kept on dragging Abigail by her skirt. "Oh, for heaven's sake," Aunt Margaret frowned. "Just follow him, Abigail! He's trying to lead you to something! My, you could've figured that out and not yell like a maniac, couldn't you?"

Abigail gritted her teeth. "When a dog that has once attacked you suddenly barks at you and takes hold of your skirt," she snapped. "You _don't_ stop to think that he's probably trying to lead you to a treasure!"

Aunt Margaret glared harder. She gave Spot a soft kick. Spot released Abigail's skirt, but started barking loudly and jumped on the ends of his toes. "Now follow him." she said in such a final tone that Abigail followed Spot meekly, keeping a sure distance away so if any case Spot felt like biting her skirt again, she had time to whirl around and run for her dear life.

Spot brought them to Deborah's silent room and continued barking, thumping his paws on the mahogany door. Aunt Margaret stepped forward and knocked. "Deborah?" she called. "Deborah, dear? Are you in there? Darling?"

Deborah didn't answer, but it was the least of Abigail's care as she stared, transfixed on Spot's enormous body. "Deborah!" Aunt Margaret called again, slightly angry. "Open the door, I say! Deborah! What are you doing in there?"

Still, Deborah didn't answer.

"Abigail, dear," Aunt Margaret whispered, her face suddenly blue. "Go get the bundle of keys from the kitchen."

Abigail practically flew to the kitchen, for the thought of being away from Spot rather encouraged her. But she walked very slowly on her way back, and handed the keys to Aunt Margaret.

Aunt Margaret opened the door and stepped in. Abigail had never been in Deborah's room before, and she poked her head in curiously. The room was handsomely decorated, with thick curtains and a big drape hanging over the walls. There was a desk, made out of fine wood and the bed was left undone, its quilt dangling over one corner, and the pillows thrashed at either sides. At the other end, stood a proud cupboard, one door hanging loose, revealing a certain figure that made both Aunt Margaret and Abigail gasp in pure shock - 

Deborah hung loosely in the small space, neck rounded with a thick cord of rope attached to the top of the cupboard. 

"Good Lord," gasped Aunt Margaret.

There was no mistaking it - 

Deborah Mist was dead.

A/N: Another person dead, but really, I don't think that's much of loss or anything, because I personally don't like Deborah anyway! : P. Anyway, just wanted to ask one thing: I already have a clear picture of the ending, and I predict that there will be another two or three chapters and then that's it. Yeah, it's a bit sad. So the big question is:

  * Do you want me to end it that way ("So we can know what happened to Fillan, damn it!")? 
  * Or do you want me to twist the plot around again and make it longer?

Tell me, all right?


	8. Take note!

A/N: It's me, without the chapter this time. Just before you shoot me, please acknowledge that   
my internet crashed (Aaaargh!) and this comp I'm currently using simpky refuses to open my files   
(double Aaaargh!) resulting in me not being able to upload the continuing stories (Triple Aaaargh!)  
  
I dunno when i'll finally be able to upload them, so in the meantime, just wanna tell you:  
- there will only be two more chapters  
- then it will be The End  
- Yes! The End is here!  
- so start worrying about how it's gonna end!  
  



	9. Take Note 2!

Yes, it's me - nothingtodo and no, I don't have the chapters with me yet.  
I'm terribly sorry, but it seems as if my computer refuses to be fixed!  
I think it's annoying me on purpose. I think i'm getting annoyed. I think the   
computer won't have that long a life.  
It's supposed to be back in three months, so i can't exactly pinpoint  
when i'll be able to post it. I'm writing just to tell you that I'm sorry,   
and that I'll try all i can to get my files back. Please be patient, okay?  
If you have any more complains, you can always e-mail me, i suppose. But i'm  
telling you, there's nothing i can do!  
  
Sorry,  
me. 


End file.
